The Shape of Things to Come
by devilherdue
Summary: END-GAME SPOILERS. Akana Tabris has done dangerous things in the name of freedom, unspeakable things in the name of love. She may be one step ahead for now, but fate is chasing hot on her heels. -- Multiple Perspectives. Non-Standard End-Game Choices.
1. Blight Breaker

R&R and I shall do the same for any of your Dragon Age fics!

Warning: moderate to heavy blood and gore, will likely need to bump up the rating in later chapters.

Likely to become fairly dark in the future.

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**Akana**

_"No, the journey does not end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take.  
The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass."  
-Gandalf, Lord of the Rings_

The archdemon was slowing. Bodies lay strewn in a circular pattern around its taloned feet: fur and flesh and armor were shredded in the soupy mix of blood and gore. The mages had damaged its wings at least, preventing the beast from lifting off again. It didn't mean they weren't still dangerous -- Akana ducked just in time to see the muscled limb unfurl, slamming into three Redcliffe soldiers, crushing their armor and sending them flying back.

But the battle would be over soon, that was becoming obvious. Akana felt her body growing weary, but every so often the giant creature would twist just so, and she would catch a glance of him: bits of his armor gleaming in the places where the blood hadn't splashed and stained. His helm had been torn away, and she could see his brow was set in both determination and pain. She saw his lips pull back over his teeth, which were startlingly white compared to the red-black sheen coating his face and neck: red from the blood of their fallen allies, black from the Darkspawn. Her companion. Her Knight. Alistair, the Grey Warden.

And that was all she needed -- Oghren had told her that you needed to think of something to make you furious if you wanted to be a Berserker. She'd been a fast study: rage was nothing new to her. At first she'd only had to think back to the Alienage, remembering seeing Shianni lying broken and sobbing on the cold floor of the Arl's Estate, and that had been enough fuel to last her several lifetimes.

Now, though, she thought of him. Alistair let out a rallying cry that briefly overtook even Leliana's song. Akana let the fury blossom in her gut and in her chest till it burned just like the Joining's elixir, setting her throat aflame until she was screaming too: nothing as inspiring as Alistair's, but more ferocious, bestial, horrible. He was strong and good, and as long as he stood against the darkness, she was free to let her caution -- and her morality -- fade.

With every blow against him her bloodlust grew, and it would not be slaked until each foe lie crippled, eviscerated, mangled beyond repair.

She tried, for all their sake's she tried, to be good. She had helped those who needed it, without question of reward. She had sought out evil and punished it. On occasion she had even been merciful. But here she released herself from the bonds of decency. The Darkspawn were evil. Even Wynne had said nothing as Akana had killed them with such brutal efficiency that gore had to be prodded and pulled and plucked from the chinks in her armor. Life had afforded her quite few guiltless outlets for her rage, and Akana had grown to relish the simplicity of facing an enemy that was irredeemable, unquestionably beyond compassion. When it came to fighting Darkspawn there was no need to worry about what Wynne, or Leliana -- or most importantly, Alistair -- thought.

The demon bellowed with such force that she found herself unable to move against it, the sound a thing made solid. Several of the remaining troops were brought to their knees, a couple even dropping their weapons to clutch their skulls. Pushing forward, borrowing on reserves of stamina that had long since be drained, Akana slashed at an exposed stretch of the dragon's belly. One of its hindquarters at been all but crippled, and she dodged its now clumsy attempt to kick at her. A cowering soldier was not so lucky: a claw easily two feet long punched through her chestplate like it was made of cheap tin rather than well-forged steel.

As quick as Akana was on her feet -- a necessity when you fought with two long-swords and had little defensive skill to speak of -- the thick, queasy mire underfoot got the better of her. She slipped, at least adept enough to break her fall without landing on any of the fallen weapons (or her own). As she moved to climb back to her feet, already looking up to catch a glimpse of her fellow Grey Warden, she had time only to see a band of blackness swinging towards her. The archdemon's tail hid her broadside, flinging her like a doll across the stony battlefield.

Her armor, which had been crafted from dragon scale itself, absorbed much of the blow, but there were two audible and simultaneous pops as she felt a couple of ribs break on impact. After sailing through the air she hit the ground elbow first, and the flare of pain followed by a tingly lack of sensation informed her that the arm was going to be useless until Wynne could set it. She continued to roll, collecting all other manner of bruises and gashes, though nothing as debilitating.

Akana came to a stop lying face-first in blood, unsure of whether it was her own or not, and unable to care. She breathed in a gulp of it, wretching and sneezing it out, trying to push herself to her feet. Her head was swimming and she coughed up more blood that she hoped wasn't from internal bleeding but rather a busted lip. Her helm was twisted half to the side, suffocating her, and with her good arm she wrenched it off, letting it clatter dully to the ground.

Her hair, a blinding platinum and kept cropped in short ties, was instantly sprayed with a fine mist of blood as the archdemon roared again. Trying to focus her eyes, Akana saw Wynne first, praying in the distance. Her pain began to ebb away, and the ribs mended themselves. The arm, though, would take more time than Wynne could spare, and Akana watched as the healer turned back to the main fight at hand.

Akana turned her head as quickly as she was able, on her knees and propped up with one hand, the other arm limp and lifeless at her side. What she saw made the breath leave her body, even if she was not one to often be stunned in battle. She didn't freeze up, as many soldiers -- both green and veteran alike -- were wont to. Now, though, as if all happening very slowly, she saw the dragon swing its tail back, trying to right itself. It put too much weight on its destroyed back limb, which slid, just has she had, in the mess of bone and limb and guts.

The archdemon slipped, splayed, if only for a half a second: but that was all that Alistair needed. He lunged forward, moving with impossible speed for all his heavy armor, and grappled the creature's skull. It jerked its head back, and for a moment he was suspended in the air above it. He only just managed to grab and hold, and whether it was luck or fate did not matter in the slightest to her. She watched as he slung himself around the back of its neck, just behind the head. He wasted no time in driving his sword through the flesh there.

The dragon's scream was no longer just pain or outrage, but also fear and desperation. Before he could get a second blow in, it violently snapped its long neck to the side. Alistair was tossed down with enough force that she felt it through the stone. The creature backed away, spasming wildly. The soul-searing purple flames that it had been vomiting now seeped from the fresh laceration, and it could not get its balance, scrambling with claws that left six-inch deep gouges in the marble.

Akana felt her eyes widen, the snake tattoo that curled along the right side of her face framing one bright blue-grey eye. Though it was dangerous and stupid, she ignored the dragon: she looked only upon Alistair, felt not rage or fury but only empty despair. This had been Wynne's warning, Morrigan's warning: love was clouding her reason. They could not afford this hesitation. Fereldan could not afford a Grey Warden who cared more for her fallen comrade than to finish off an archdemon and end a Blight.

"Alistair..." She croaked, half gurgling the name around a fresh mouthful of blood. There was no way he could have heard her, she was too quiet, and the distance seeming greater and greater the longer she looked upon his still form. But there: he stirred. His head turned towards her, and for a moment their eyes locked. And she, here, in a pool of blood, _on her gods-damned knees_, while the greatest enemy they would ever know shrieked its death cries to the Maker.

He did not say anything, perhaps could not. But he turned his eyes from her to the demon, and she saw his hand grip for his sword, saw him move to his feet. He was closer to the archdemon than she was, and already Wynne was chanting another spell to get him back to his feet. There could be no doubt: if he stood again, he would kill the archdemon.

Both Wardens understood what it meant to be the one to strike the final blow. Morrigan's "deal" or no, neither would risk the other to do it if they had the choice. And suddenly, the fury was there, and Akana rose on willpower that was not her own. She gripped the hilt of her remaining sword tightly, and forced herself into a sprint. There was no subtly to it, no grace. The creature seemed unaware of her approach, or unable to control its thrashing to do anything about it.

Akana thanked the Maker -- whether she believed in Him or not -- for Alistair's heavy plate, for the large shield bound to his arm, for every bit of protection that weighed him down now. She charged, wishing she had the strength to let out a fearsome cry that would herald the beast's death, but there was nothing to spare for such extravagances. There was only the need to win, the duty to end it, and the love that demanded her sacrifice.

Just as the creature turned to face her, perhaps hoping to snatch her in its maw and break her bones against its fangs as its last act, Akana shifted to her side. The blood that had made the battlefield so precarious before now came to her aid: she slid, controlling her momentum and ducking underneath the archdemon's attack. Its jaw snapped together so hard that she felt her armor rattle.

Now the length of the creature's neck was exposed, with scales that were much weaker than what shielded the rest of its body. Akana plunged her sword into the soft meat there, slicing four feet before she stopped sliding and rolled out from under the dragon's stomping, flailing claws.

The creature slumped to the ground as its black blood jetted in turrets. Akana wasted no time now: she could not think, could not reconsider. She spun, took the couple steps towards its head. The inky eyes gazed up at her, and she felt the demon's presence in her mind, just as she had during all the nightmares.

What she felt was a strange blend of emotions: hatred and admiration and recognition. Most of all, there was a taunting, if bitter smugness. _Finish it then,_ the archdemon seemed to snarl into her mind. _You may kill me, but I will drag you to the same cold grave, Warden._

Akana's eyelids flickered. She was not afraid of death, but truly, it was only in these past few months that she'd ever felt she had anything worth living for. And now she stood to lose it all, even if for the noblest cause possible. Even hoping that Morrigan's spell would work rang false: Akana had little doubt that she was going to be meeting the Maker very soon.

_I only wish that I'd had more time with h-_

The archdemon lurched forward, weakly, and Akana reacted. Putting all the weight into her good sword arm, she sank the blade into the demon's skull.

Light and power erupted up against her, hotter than fresh blood, both painful and righteous. Akana screamed but did not hear it, trapped in a wall of light. She pulled at the sword's hilt, needing to be dislodged from the demon, needing to be away from that power source. Its escaping soul poured over her, its prying fingers touching all over her mind and looking for a way in. It did not occur to her to let go of the weapon: she could not. The act of slaying had made it one with her in this moment.

As her eyes rolled in her skull she saw her three companions. Leliana had grabbed Alistair around one arm, trying to hold him back. He shrugged her off roughly, and took two staggering steps towards Akana before Wynne muttered a spell that made a barrier around him, binding him. Though his limbs could no longer move, Akana saw the terror and the pain in his eyes: what hell it must have been, to have to watch her suffer and be unable to do anything about it.

_**SEE IT TO THE END, GREY WARDEN.**_ The voice in her head was thundering, deafening even as it made no sound. The demon commanded her, now not just a demon but something older and without the tainted corruption. Akana put her boot against the dying dragon's eye-ridge, and with one last great heave, pulled her sword free. An surge of power exploded outwards, knocking Wynne and Leliana from their feet, with Alistair still frozen in place. Akana was unaffected, likely due to her role in killing the archdemon.

Wynne's power over the barrier broke as she fainted, and Leliana groaned as she rolled to her side. Akana stepped back, sword dropping now from her fist. Alistair, stumbling with the sudden freedom of motion, rushed towards her. She fell backwards, collapsing against him in a distant clank of plate and chainmail. He didn't have the strength left to hold them both up, and caved to his knees, cradling the elf woman to his chest. There were tears on his face, and she only barely felt the hard steel of his gauntlet as he tried to gently cup her face.

Akana did not know if this was death, but if it was, there were far worse ways to die.

Blackness overcame her.


	2. Give and Take

_**Alistair**_

_"Don't ya love her madly?"  
-The Doors_

Alistair held her in his arms -- they shook with exhaustion, but he'd sooner have them ripped from his body than let her go. It was like losing Duncan all over again: worse, even. At least he hadn't been able to do anything to stop that. He'd simply woken up and it had been all over already. Sure, he'd hated it, sworn that it'd been better if he'd been there to at least die alongside his mentor's guide, but now...

This was a entirely fresh agony, bright and piercing. He _could_ have done something. If he'd swung harder, moved faster, been _smarter_-

"Allli-" A bubble of blood popped over her mouth, and Alistair felt her shudder, her eyes rolling in delirium.

He bit back the cry in his throat. "I'm here, I'm right here, Akana, dear, love-" Her head dropped back against his arm.

"No! Don't! _NO!_" The wail of pain and anger that he'd managed to swallow down before was unstoppable now, and he knew he was sobbing. "Please, please, I love you, _I love you,_ this isn't fair-"

_There was a deal!,_he tried to scream, but all that came out was an awful howling, choking sound. Maker, what had he done? The last night that they would ever have together, and he'd spent it with that harpy, that lying apostate _bitch_, and for what? The hatred in his heart burned black, matched only by the ache of sorrow. He could not think of Morrigan now. There would be time to hunt that witch to the ends of the earth: now, now there could only be grief-

It took him a moment to realize that someone was pulling at his shoulders. Another set of hands worked to unlock his fingers.

"Alistair, you damned oaf," the lilt of an Orlesian accent made it through his wracking, heaving sobs, "Let go! You must let go!"

Instinctively, furiously, Alistair clung tighter to the limp body of his beloved. How dare she? Would even Leliana not leave him to-

"I will say this only once, young man." Wynne's voice wasn't simply firm in that mock-Grandmother tone she sometimes took on: it was hard, forceful, and part of it got through to him. "If you wish to gaze upon the pretty blue eyes of your fellow Grey Warden once more, you will release her. Right. Now."

"But-" He warbled. "She's-"

"Her spirit remains. Likely hanging about because she's just as stubborn as you are, and just as unready to part ways. Now please," Wynne's voice softened. "Lay her against the stone."

Dumb, limbs moving of their own accord (and with plenty of help from Leliana), Alistair complied. The elf woman looked so fragile, mangled in a mess of blood from dozens of different bodies. Once, in the Chantry, Alistair had seen a couple of boys catch a bird with a broken wing. He'd gone to get one of the adults to come and save it, but in the end he'd returned to find that the other boys had dropped a large stone on it. The thing was quite dead, the small bones in its body crushed to bits and its feathers matted with-

He shook his head violently. "She's alive?" It wasn't a question so much as a snarl, a demand.

"Not quite alive, but not quite gone, either." Wynne closed her eyes, her hands running over the air just above Akana's crumpled form, as if feeling for something in the empty space. Alistair bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood: Akana had told him about the healer's "condition." They'd laughed about it even -- she'd suggested that Wynne was an abomination, since she was a host to a spirit from the Fade. He'd laughed and played along, of course, but he didn't let on just how delicate Wynne's situation might be. Sure a good spirit was better than a demon, but after seeing what happened to the Circle, Alistair wasn't ready to say he felt exactly _comfortable_ with the idea of any mage being possessed by _anything_. But he'd thought it best to chalk it up to his training and move on.

Golden light radiated from Wynne's hands, falling softly down onto Akana like dust from the sun. In the twilight which was made only darker by the smoke blotting the sky, the glow grew brighter and brighter. Alistair could hear Leliana reciting a part of the Chant behind him, and, despite all his personal history with _that_, he found himself chanting along with her. Anything.

_Anything_ to bring her back.

"Something is... wrong," Wynne said softly, her brow knitted in confusion. A gust of wind blew over them, bringing on it a triumphant roar -- they could hear the cheering of the collected armies below, but it did not hearten him.

"What? What's wrong? What's happening?" Alistair felt like a child, needy and ineffective. Wynne continued whatever it was she was doing. The healer opened her mouth as if to say something, the look of bewilderment and frustration still clear on her face, when Alistair felt a sudden jerk in by his side.

Akana let out a loud, rattling gasp that was wet with blood. Wynne jumped back in surprise, apparently as shocked as he was, and Alistair immediately leaned forward. When he tried to say her name, all that came out was a strangled, unmanly squeak. Akana rolled over roughly on one side, and he caught a glimpse of her arm -- or rather, the unnatural, jagged bulge under her armor that he assumed was bone jutting out. One cheek flush against the dirty stone, he watched her retch, vomiting up was seemed like quarts of blood.

"What's happening?" His voice trembled, and he tried to touch her, wanted to give some comfort, not knowing if she was alive or dead or if this was death or if it was a return to life. Alistair rubbed her arm, tried and failed at pushing her blood-caked hair away from her face as she continued to heave -- the locks of hair were impossible to grasp in his steel gauntlets.

"She was bleeding internally. I managed to heal those wounds, but the blood has to come out."

"You brought her back to life? You really brought her back?"

"No, I did not, something-"

Akana rolled onto her back again, her mouth looking rather like the maw of some of the werewolves they'd had as troops. "...don't," she croaked, eyes fluttering as her breathing evened out, "...don't talk about me like I'm not here."

Any doubts that Alistair had evaporated instantly: he wasted no time scooping her back up again. She grimaced with pain, but otherwise made no protest, and blood and bile or no, he kissed her face -- over and over.

"Maker's Breath! It's a miracle!" Leliana burst into tears. Alistair, who hadn't really _stopped_ crying, felt his eyes watering with renewed vigor. Wynne did not comment, but she was eyeing Akana with suspicion more than she was rejoicing, that was for sure. Alistair felt a spike of anger at the old mage, but shrugged it aside. He was plenty happy enough for the both of them.

"It worked. I can't believe- I can't-" Alistair found himself unable to finish planting kisses over her face to get the words out. It tasted awful, but he didn't care.

"What worked, Alistair? What do you mean?" Wynne's gaze was hawkish on him, scrutinizing, but he ignored her.

"Who _cares?_" Leliana asked cheerfully, digging a handkerchief from a pouch at her side. It was remarkably clean, both lacey and silky. Leave it to her to have something that nice while they were busy fighting a Blight. "I know _I_ don't care. Here, Alistair, let me-"

Leliana wiped some of the mess from Akana's face with the tender caring of a close friend. She paused, seeming to consider handing the bit of cloth to him to finish the job, took one look at his heavy gauntlets, and instead wiped his face for him. This wasn't nearly as gentle as she'd been with Akana, and Alistair blinked awkwardly until it was finished. "There, carry on," she instructed.

"Thanks," Akana said, voice strained but her tone genuine underneath.

Alistair brought her up further, kissing her full against her lips. There was still blood there, but by this point he almost forgotten what it was like _not_ to be covered in the stuff. She kissed him back, if weakly, and he felt his heart flutter and his stomach knot like it was the first time all over again. He didn't close his eyes: maybe it wasn't romantic if you didn't close your eyes, but he was too scared that he'd open them and it wouldn't be real.

When he finally pulled away, Akana smiled up at him faintly. It was a grisly sight -- she was still in need of plenty of healing, and a bath wouldn't hurt any of them -- but he found it beautiful anyway. "It takes more than a few Darkspawn to kill me," she said dryly. He remembered the line clearly: she'd said the same thing after Ostagar, and he'd thought she'd been dead then, too. Alistair laughed, a short barking sound that was still choked with tears.

"Oh, yes, never should've doubted you m'lady, what was I _thinking_, it was just one measly Archdemon after all, nothing to get worked up over," he babbled readily. When he leaned in for another kiss, however, she pulled away slightly.

"I am... I _am_ in a great deal of _pain_ though," she murmured, rustling a little in his arms.

"Oh! Oh, oh- Wynne?" He looked up sharply to the healer, who was still silent on the matter. "Help?"

After what seemed like forever, Wynne finally nodded. "Of course," she replied, and then repeated quietly, "Of course." Without another word, she set about healing all of their remaining injuries.


	3. Second Guardian

**Yorick**

_"Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell."  
- Emily Dickinson_

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Yorick pushed his wet nose into Akana's hand, licking her palm. The Mabari hound had waited as patiently as he could, sitting next to his master's father throughout the Queen's short speech. The father smelled a bit like Akana, enough to recognize him, and he was a nice enough fellow -- he scratched Yorick behind the ears every so often.

Once the formal tension in the room had dissipated somewhat, and Yorick saw Akana give a short bow and walk over to the other Grey Warden, he got up from the father's side. The two Wardens were talking as Yorick approached. The heavily armored man was friendly for the most part, though he practiced his terrible jokes on Yorick, who didn't find them all that funny (Alistair claimed he just didn't have a sense of humor). Akana liked him though -- loved him just as fiercely as Yorick loved her, perhaps -- and that was reason enough to tolerate Alistair.

"Hello there," Akana smiled down at him, and Yorick barked happily. He knew the other companions complained about it sometimes, but trying to stop a Mabari from barking was a fruitless endeavor. You might as well tell the sun not to rise. Or Sten not to scowl. Yorick couldn't help that he understood the upright creatures better than they understood him.

"Why yes, _hello_," Alistair said, narrowing his eyes at Yorick, though Yorick could tell the man wasn't really upset. "And how _is_ the furry competition for my one-and-only love's affection?"

Yorick continued the game, laying his ears back against his head and emitting a low warning growl. The man pulled his lips back over his teeth, offering up a much less impressive growl of his own. "Good boy," Akana snickered.

"I do try," Alistair smirked, turning back to her. "Oh, wait, me or him?" He jerked a thumb towards Yorick. Yorick barked, lunging up to nip at the extended digit, his powerful jaws snapping shut only inches away. The armored man gave a surprised yelp and quickly retracted his arm to his chest. "Did you see that?! You monster! You jealous cur! You can't be everyone's favorite!"

"You're my favorite?" Akana asked dryly, arching an eyebrow at him. Yorick, proud of making the man shriek, sat down on his haunches by the woman's boots.

"Are you saying I'm not?" He gave her a cheeky grin, and pouted his lower lip out. "You'll make me cry, choosing that drooling, flea-ridden dog over this one."

"Well, it's a good thing I don't have to choose, then, isn't it?" Yorick heard his master's voice drop lower, becoming more intimate as she took a step towards the man. This usually signaled that it was time to go keep guard outside the tent. It was a tone she'd taken on frequently with Alistair, especially in the last few weeks of their journey. Yorick did not know how humans chose the mates they did, but Alistair possessed admirable qualities that any Mabari could sense: he was loyal, playful, and protective. Perhaps not as clever. But, if Yorick had to play accomplice to their late-night trysts, he certainly didn't mind. Besides, the man tended to bribe him with tasty morsels of bread, cheese, and meat whenever the time came.

The two of them kissed. Among the other humans, Akana only kissed this man. However, she _would_ frequently kneel down and kiss Yorick on his head while rubbing the ruff of his neck. Yorick enjoyed the attention, and could hardly blame Alistair for the same. They parted quickly though, moreso than usual, and shot furtive glances back to the rest of the crowded room. Letting out a low whine, Yorick perked his ears up at Akana.

"He is good for that at least," Alistair murmured. "But anyway, I, uh, I was going to ask you something." Now the tone was different: it was the one they used when they were talking about things the other humans don't talk about. Grey Wardens. Ostagar. The man Duncan, whom Yorick never met. Yorick's body tensed: his watch was more dutiful now. He scanned the crowd for any humans who might be straining their weak ears to listen.

"It will be a few more days until the Grey Wardens from the outer kingdoms arrive to congratulate you-"

"-us," Akana interjected.

"-us," Alistair begrudgingly accepted. "But I've already begun receiving questions. They want to know... they want to know how you survived. How it's possible. What should I tell them?"

The woman shifted her weight, rubbing the back of her neck nervously. "Tell them... tell them that it was a miracle or something. That Grey Wardens don't _have_ to die to end a Blight."

The man digested this for a moment. "Any particular reason why? Other than, y'know, people might not be so happy with the 'ritual sex magic to absorb a demon's soul' thing?" The humor in his voice fell abnormally flat.

"Grey Wardens have earned a bit of hope," she answered definitively, and Yorick looked up at his master. Her voice was filled with a determined, if understated, passion. "We were almost completely wiped out. We, they -- whoever comes _next --_ deserves a story where good fought evil and won without having to sacrifice everything to do it. Right?"

Alistair's mouth opened, jaw hanging ajar for half a second before he replied. "But there were... there _were_ sacrifices. One's we'll never know the consequences of." His countenance darkened. "Or maybe just not till it's too late."

"They don't have to know that." Still, she spoke with a rock-solid confidence that made Yorick's stump of a tail wag. "All they have to know is that sometimes the good guys save the world and get to live in the world they saved, too."

The man smiled at this. A little sadly, Yorick thought. "You know," Alistair started jovially, "You're smarter than people give you credit for."

"I wish I could say the same for you," Akana quipped back without hesitation. His smile widened, gloominess fading.

"I love you, Lady." He took both her hands in his. "But, you have an appearance to make. Come see me, after? If you're not too busy relishing in your fame and glory?" She made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. "You never know -- it might grow on you. Like certain Templars with boyishly good looks and really awful jokes."

"I guess I'll be in trouble if that happens. Meet you upstairs, later?" Yorick saw her give the man's hands a squeeze, heard as both of their heartbeats quickened a pace.

"Aye," he replied, a silly smile on his face that Yorick recognized immediately. He often caught the man gazing at Akana with it from across the campsite: another sign that he was going to be on tent-watching duty for a few hours. "Till then, m'love. Ferelden's Hero." He smirked and bowed, then took his leave.

Akana reached down, and Yorick felt his master pat the top of his broad head. "Would you like to accompany me for this? You _are_ one of the last survivors of Ostagar, after all." Yorick barked agreeably in reply, darting nimbly around her legs. "Yeah yeah, you're the lucky one," she grumbled good-naturedly, scratching him a moment behind the ears before moving down the hall and towards the exit. "No one's going to be asking _you _any questions."


	4. Revelry, Pt 1

**A/N**: Any and all reviews are appreciated, and thank you to everyone who has either left a review, and favorited or signed up for alerts. The next couple chapters will be from Zevran's perspective, who, for how interesting a character he is, doesn't seem to get nearly enough airtime in the Dragon Age fanfics I've seen.

Enjoy. =)

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**Zevran**

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'Cause we all wanna party when the funeral ends,  
And we all get together when we bury our friends.  
- My Chemical Romance_

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The din of the Great Hall was uproarious, undiminished even now, hours after the speeches ended and the feasting -- and drinking -- began. Zevran didn't mind it so much; normally he wasn't entirely fond of areas crowded with drunken fools, whether they were celebrating or not. For this, however, he could make an exception. He was drinking as much as any of them (well, any excluding Ogrhen, but that dwarf was in a league of his own), and if some being was fool enough to attack him here, then let them come.

It was strange to be seated so close to importance without pretending to be someone he was not. He sat at the Heroine's table: not because he was pursuing a mark, or even supposed to be collecting information. Zevran was a hero now himself -- or at least that's what everyone kept telling him.

He gulped down another glass of honeyed wine, feeling warm down to the toes inside of his finely crafted Antivan boots. Closing his eyes briefly, he thought back to the day's earlier events. When they'd parted ways at the gates, he and the Warden had spoken. He'd truly thought he would never see her again: they'd all heard that no Grey Warden could kill an Archdemon and live. And he, for all the romantic it made him, could not imagine that she would _not_ kill it. The mark of a legend was upon her, Zevran had sensed that about her since the day she spared his life.

Ah, and not just a romantic, either, but a poet as well. So be it.

There had been things he'd wanted to say, then. The sort of things that one did not say in the company of others, especially when that company included a rather heavily armed and armored young man in the throes of his first love. So he'd held his tongue, and knew that when Akana did it, when she ended this Blight and her life with it, he'd hate himself for what he hadn't said.

That she'd given him a chance, for example. That he saw the side-long, half-wild grins that blossomed on her mouth at wet, dull sound that a a blade made as it bit into unguarded flesh. That he knew the struggles she made with her darker nature, and that the fact that she worked against it to begin with made her all the more beautiful.

No no, definitely nothing that could be said in front of that watchdog, Alistair. He was a good man, Zevran had no doubt of that, but the Templar was about as complex as a river-smoothed pebble. He could never understand what Zevran understood. Alistair would never know what his love went through to prove herself to him...

Zevran drained another glass, winking lasciviously at the maiden who brought them the next jug. She blushed a deep floral red as she skirted back to the kitchens. He laughed to himself merrily. There was no doubt that he'd wake up an unfamiliar bed tomorrow: he just wanted to be so stone-drunk that he didn't have to think of any of this mess between here and there.

"She is alive," Zevran said lightly to himself, "There is that." No one around him -- neither Oghren to his right or the young Soris, Akana's cousin apparently, to his left -- seemed to notice.

Suddenly the hall became very quiet, quieter than a room holding so many people had any right to be. Zevran perked up, leaning forward so quickly that he felt his head spin. All attention was turned towards the head of the table where the Queen, Akana, and Alistair sat.

Leliana had done something with Akana's hair -- hell, maybe just _brushed_ it -- and it looked marvelous. It could have also just been that it was clean; the natural color of it was like pure platinum, but after a few days worth of blood-soaked battle it took on a odd pink-ish hue. She was wearing some sort of light, flashy ceremonial armor. Zevran smiled: getting the Warden to wear anything for show rather than practicality must have been a hard-won fight. He had to commend whoever had managed the feat.

Akana stood, weaving slightly: the flush in her cheeks showed that she was celebrating as thoroughly as the rest of them. He didn't think he'd ever seen her so relaxed, and it did wonders. Sure there was something intoxicating about a woman always tensed for battle, as ready to snarl as she was smile, but to see happiness brought to someone who deserved it was a thing of beauty in itself.

"How should I start?" The Heroine turned, whispering quietly to the other Warden at her side. Everyone without earshot laughed, particularly those that had traveled with her. Well, perhaps not Sten, but he didn't sneer, if that was a sign of anything. Alistair shrugged, and gestured for her to continue -- which was fair enough. The man wasn't exactly a master with words, himself.

"I would like -- Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to," Akana bit her lip, as if suddenly aware of just how many eyes were upon her. The color in her cheeks spread to the tips of her elvish ears, and Zevran shifted in his chair, surprised that he was bothering to try to stop the inappropriate thoughts that came to mind. She stopped dead in the middle of her sentence, eyes glazing over.

_Neither Blight nor Dragon nor Demon could so much as slow her, and the Lady has stagefright!_ Zevran suppressed a chuckle, and reminded himself not to drink any more for the time being.

Leliana leaned across the table -- she was directly across from Zevran -- and cupped a hand to her mouth. "Go on!" She urged in a whisper. Akana looked down at the bard, blinked, and seemed to come out of her trance. With a sheepish smile, she looked back around those assembled. If she wasn't courageous and confident now, then she feigned it well enough, as she raised her voice to fill the large Hall.

"Alistair and I are Grey Wardens," she began, steadying herself against the heavy, massive table. "It is our charge to defeat the Darkspawn where they rise, to -- to venture into the heart of a Blight." Zevran's eyes flicked over to Alistair: apparently the paramour hadn't been expecting this either, as he watched his love intently. It was one of the few moments Zevran had ever seen a serious expression on his face; he'd almost doubted the Knight possessed one.

"But it was not only two Grey Wardens who came to Fereldan's aid." Akana looked down at them and Zevran realized where this was going. Feeling a mixture of pride and embarrassment, Zevran sank into his chair a little. "Me and Alistair, we never really had a choice in any of this. I mean..." Her eloquence faltered, and she bit at her bottom lip once more. "Running away or staying to stand and fight isn't _really_ a choice, not when you're a Warden."

Though he could certainly disagree, the fact that she did truly believe that fleeing wasn't an option was just another credit to her character. With a snicker, Zevran pushed a bit of blonde hair behind his pointed ear. Ah, well. Maybe it was not that he understood her better than the rather uncomplicated Templar she'd chosen to bed. They did share that after all -- they were cut of the stuff that all noble heroes seemed to be made from: tenacity, servitude, virtue.

Beyond any doubt, the assassin knew that maybe the bloodlust and the barely reigned in chaos inside their leader's soul were what made her attractive to him, but it was her sense of honor which made her irresistible. And unattainable. Two qualities which were invariably linked, as far as Zevran was concerned.

"Every one of my companions had a choice to leave. The reasons these brave men and women entered into our war party was... varied. Often colorful." Akana looked towards Leliana, then Wynne. The two were seated side-by-side, and even the elderly woman appeared tipsy. Nothing _undignified,_ of course, but it did take years off of her. "Some forced their way in, giving me little say in the matter, demanding that I accept their help." She smiled ruefully, and there were more than a few quiet chuckles. "I've never been particularly religious, but if there is a Maker, I'm sure He aligned so that our paths should meet. I've never had so much aid and goodwill forced upon me as I had in this journey. Thank you."

Before any applause could build, Akana turned her eyes on Oghren. "Some of you joined for the thrill of it; because you had little left for you wherever you came from, and fighting was in your blood. Darkspawn, after all, were as worthy an opponent as any." Oghren, face nearly as beet-red as his hair, eyed the Warden blearily. The room didn't seem to know how to take this. "I respect that," Akana continued, half her mouth pulling into a smirk. The familiar glint came to her eyes, the dangerous one that had Zevran so smitten. "It's why I agreed to join the Wardens in the first place. Let no person who lives today, free of the Blight, scorn such a fighter. Thank you."

Again, Akana switched to the next companion across the table -- Sten this time -- but not before Oghren burst into heartfelt tears of gratitude, which were likely more alcohol than water. Zevran amiably patted the dwarf on the back, who in return let out a loud sniffle and a noxious belch.

"Others had something to atone for." Sten stared back at the Warden in that unsettling, unblinking manner that he had. "It's not my place to say what... what good has outweighed what sin..." Her voice wavered, and in his peripheral vision Zevran noticed Alistair also look away. Coincidence? Perhaps. Perhaps not, though. The idea that the chivalrous jokester of their group had anything to redeem himself of did pique Zevran's curiosity, however. But everyone was well on their way to being drunk if they weren't already there, and such observations deserved a clear and sober mind to analyze. "And maybe atonement is a quest that never ends. But your service to Ferelden will not be forgotten, least of all by me. Thank you."

Sten nodded in approval -- or just acknowledgement, it was hard to tell with him. Akana nodded back, and then her eyes traveled back to Zevran's side of the table, and, specifically, to him. Assassins were not prone to becoming flustered (something about needing utter control of their bodies and emotions to manipulate and kill meant that detachment came with the territory), and yet he found himself feeling hot under the collar, as it were. Sure, there were hundreds of pairs of eyes on him, but all of those combined did not affect him in the way that hers did.

"And then there were those who had even _less_ conventional means of joining with us." She laughed genuinely, though Zevran noticed that the other companions didn't seem to find it quite so funny. Alistair even scowled, perhaps not realizing that anyone was watching, perhaps not caring. Wynne's face took on the pinched, pained look that it did when she was thinking of something unpleasant. Damn them all if he cared, though. If Akana could laugh at it now, had forgiven him, then what business did they have holding grudges? It wasn't as if the assassination attempt had been _personal._

"In a matter of hours you went from trying to kill me, to killing for me. Maybe I slept with one-eye open for a night or two, but I'm glad that things worked out as they did. War might unleash upon us betrayal and fresh enemies, but it also gifts us with friends that we would never find under other circumstances. Thank you."

Zevran found his eyes blurring and he quickly regained control over himself. He put a hand to his chest and bowed forward lightly. The Lady had been nothing but welcoming to him after the first day that passed without any attempt on his part to back-stab her. He wasn't so sure that such trust was a positive trait -- it was no secret that he wouldn't trust himself -- but her acceptance went deeper than just some hopeful naivete. Akana wasn't exactly a scholar, by any stretch of the imagination, but she was far from stupid. It wasn't a cocky over-confidence that dared anyone to attack her, on the field of battle or in the pre-dawn shadows.

Instead it was something else entirely: a refusal to live in suspicion, to devote energy to constantly looking over her shoulder. There was nothing short of admirable about that -- and after all, why should she bother? She had made plenty of adoring allies who did the job for her, not the least of which being a certain pony-sized war dog that seemed to shadow Zevran around camp so effectively that he might have been a Crow himself. He'd even felt the witch's eyes on him more than once, which he took for a sign of caring that perhaps even she would not admit to. Then again, now Morrigan was nowhere to be found, and he didn't know what to make of that.

After a thunderous round of applause died out, Akana was still standing at the head of the table. There was more, then? Zevran smiled to himself, feeling his eyelids half close in simple contentment. Good food, good drink, and a freshly victorious, beautiful-deadly warrior-woman praising her band of ardent followers. All things considered, he was a lucky man. Or at least he was until Akana's cousin, Soris, opened his mouth.

"You tried to kill my cousin?" The elf next to him asked in shock, leaning in. Akana began speaking of something else, which Zevran would have preferred to listen to instead. However, the cousin at least had the sense to keep his voice down. Zevran turned to regard Soris with raised eyebrows.

"Once upon a time. But do not worry -- I am a changed man," Zevran smiled slowly, searching the elf's features for similarities with Akana. There weren't many. "And your cousin, as you see, is quite resilient in the face of death."

"I can't believe she let you travel with her," Soris remarked, bewildered. There was a tinge of anger in his voice, but he didn't seem eager to cause a commotion for the moment.

"Then perhaps you do not know her as well as I have come to," the assassin allowed his grin to settle, lips curling mischievously. "She is a remarkable woman, without equal."

The cousin glowered, brow knitting as he allowed Zevran's comments to sink into his ale-soaked mind. "And just how _well_ did you get to know Akana?" The anger was closer to the surface now, and Zevran couldn't resist toying with it, like a cat with a bit of yarn.

"We spent many cold Ferelden nights on the road," he replied wistfully. "It could become quite lonely indeed. We bonded. I offered companionship that the others could not provide... as a fellow elf, of course."

"You are no fellow of mine," Soris said, voice low. "And if what you suggest is true, it would be you at her right hand, not that human, Alistair. I know my cousin well enough to know _that._"

Zevran smiled sourly; so there was some fire in the boy after all. The accusation wasn't untrue, either, and Zevran was not pleased to be reminded of it. "He is the only other remaining Grey Warden in Ferelden." He had meant for the reply to be cool, neutral, but he felt the tug at his mouth that meant there was some sneer in it, however slight.

"Mm," Soris replied, his turn to smirk. "Somehow I don't believe that entirely explains why she looks at him the way she does." His voice became syrupy, relishing his triumph. "Or the kisses they sneak when they think no one is watching."

"Do they now? And here I'd never noticed. Wildly inappropriate for two individuals of their stature, no?" Zevran knew that the discussion was going south, that he was losing the upper-hand, but he was too drunk to gracefully withdraw. Drunk, and as it turned out, not as happy as he'd thought he was.

Soris snickered, and began to reply, when Oghren leaned over so far that he was practically lying in Zevran's lap: a circumstance that the Assassin was none-too-pleased with, and hardly improved his mood. "Will ya two ladies stop bickerin' with each other!" A few eyes turned towards the commotion, but luckily it seemed that the head of the table hadn't noticed.

"Of course," Zevran answered demurely, pushing Oghren back into an upright position.

"He started it," Soris griped, and Zevran shot him a lethal glare. How in world had Zevran allowed such a child to get the better of him in their verbal exchange? The drink. It had to be the wine. Zevran turned back to Akana, only barely bothering to hide his surly expression.

"-every one of them was offered a way out. I made it known -- or I tried, at least -- that the door was open. I held these men and women captive by no bonds, though certainly some of them had their own codes. I wouldn't have begrudged anyone for leaving, and I wouldn't have tried to stop them. And yet, they saw it through to the end. To have a choice and choose to fight, that's what real honor is."

Another wave of cheering, a few more blushing faces amongst the companions seated at the Warden's table. "So I'd like to grant them each a boon." Queen Anora's fair eyebrows rose at this, so high that for a moment they were lost in the golden locks of her hair. "Each of you may ask me for something, and Maker-willing, if it's in my power to give, it's yours." A rush of whispers broke out over the Hall, and each of the companions shared a look of surprise.


	5. Revelry, Pt 2

**A/N: **Thanks for all the reviews, folks! Here is the second part (of three) of the last chapter. Third will either go up later tonight or early tomorrow morning. Stay tuned! And, as always, if you'd like me to review any of your Dragon Age fic, shoot me a message or let me know in a review. I am more than happy to oblige. The overall quality of the stuff on the Dragon Age board here is inspiring!

* * *

**Zevran**

_'Cause we all wanna party when the funeral ends,  
__And we all get together when we bury our friends.  
__- My Chemical Romance_

* * *

Zevran watched Akana intensely, enough so that through straining his ears and reading lips, he caught a bit of conversation that arose between her and Alistair.

"What," the Templar whined, "don't I get a boon?"

"No," Akana replied shortly. "You helped get me into this entire mess." The warmth in her eyes was hard to swallow. She didn't reserve it solely for Alistair; it was easy enough to bring a smile to the woman's face. But that fool was on the receiving end for so much of it...

"That wasn't _my_ fault," he bemoaned, and she rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the long table. She looked over to Leliana, her smile reaching her eyes in a way that he hadn't truly seen until now, the night of the Archdemon's death. "You first," she mock-ordered.

Leliana stood at her seat, and Zevran could see the redhead's hands shaking as she smoothed imaginary ruffles from her elegant gown; the woman certainly had an eye for well-made clothing. "Oh this is really too much, Akana, you mustn't, you've done so much for us all as well-"

"No quibbling," Akana interjected with the same casual smile. She appeared much more comfortable when she was addressing someone she was familiar with, rather than speaking to the whole room. Zevran noted that the Lady had let her guard down, given up on trying to parlay in the fashion of nobles. It was a heartwarming thing to see, though he found his own awareness increasing on her behalf.

_Guard-dogs she's made of us all, indeed. _But if they were called on to give up a slight convenience so that their leader could lay her burdens aside for a while, Zevran did not know a one among them that would protest.

Leliana wrung her hands nervously. "I, I'm not sure-"

"Please," Akana asked, the rest of the Hall silent. There was a touch of vulnerability in the Warden's voice that her request all the more genuine. This was truly something she felt she needed to do; she believed she was more in their debt than they in hers. The altruism was enough to turn his stomach for all it's sappy sentimentality, if he wasn't so convinced of its authenticity. Perhaps Akana had never been the greatest with strategy or finding the most peaceful solutions, but she'd never taken any of their abilities (or their company) for granted.

"Very well," Leliana assented, inclining her head for a moment as she thought. "Yes," the Bard said, looking back up. The smile she wore now was absolutely devilish, and Zevran saw Akana's eyes narrow in playful anticipation. He uncrossed his arms, putting the spat with Soris behind him for now. Leliana was a clever girl; she had many skills that could make for a fine Crow, though he knew her personality would never allow her to fall in with such a crowd. "Tell us a tale."

"What?" The rustle of heads snapping from the Bard to the head of the table was audible throughout the Hall. Akana looked stunned -- and when that expression passed, mortified.

"For my boon, my Lady, I request that you tell us all a tale."

"You're serious," Akana replied, comically dismayed. More rustling sounded amongst the gathered company.

"Or if you would prefer to sing it-"

"No!" Akana shouted, raising a hand to stop her. Leliana giggled into her palm for a moment, looking downwards. The rest of the Hall didn't seem to know what to make of it: rather, the soldiers who had been admitted (much to Queen Anora's chagrin) were laughing raucously and calling for a song. The nobles were direly confused to be witnessing such informal dialogue at such an important event. "No singing. We've just finished saving Denerim from a horrible fate, no need to inflict a worse one upon them. But," she paused, letting a few chuckles run their course, "this is really what you want? Not a harp made out of dragon's bone, or a pair of pretty shoes or something?"

Leliana smiled, and shook her head. "I want to hear about how you became a Grey Warden."

Akana's face darkened, and she looked down the table. At first Zevran thought that she might have been looking at him, but then he realized she was actually making eye contact with Soris -- and then her other cousin sitting across from them, the one named Shianni.

"That is not a happy story, Leliana." It wasn't a dismissal, but a warning.

The Bard's jaw set, and she nodded. "Are the origins of heroes ever happy?" Her voice carried clear and strong across the crowd, as if preparing them for Akana's tale. "Heroes are forged in sorrow and hardship."

The Warden was eyeing her friend closely, scrutinizing, as if trying to suss out if the Bard had ulterior motives. Zevran already understood, or thought he did: before Leliana had been horrified when anyone spoke of the Alienages. Once he'd overheard the woman trying to explain that many elves in Orlais were servants who lived lavishly with nobles. It was one of the few times Akana had ever become truly angry with any one of the companions. She'd interrogated Leliana with pointed questions: _"So what are we to you, then? Favored pets? Toys to dress up and tote around like gemmed accessories?"_

And even when Leliana had quickly begun to retreat, rethinking her stance, Akana had pursued with a viciousness that mirrored her savage attacks in physical combat.

_"The Arl's son raped my cousin, human. He came and plucked up women from my wedding like a child picking treats in a sweet-shop, so that he and his comrades could take them and use them till they had their fill. The reason I did not suffer a similar fate was because I murdered every man in my path until I held the severed head of the Arl's son in one hand, and a bloodied sword in the other. We are not your playthings."_

Akana had stalked off, leaving Leliana barely standing and in tears. The Bard had quickly retired to her tent to cry in shame, and even Alistair had not attempted to cheer his fellow Warden, choosing to give her an uncommon distance instead. Despite Akana's otherwise personable nature amongst their companions, there could be no doubt that she went for Leliana's jugular on that topic -- maybe even making an example out of her for the rest of the camp to witness. And as far as Zevran knew, she'd never apologized for the harsh words. This had been shortly after she'd shown him mercy despite his failed assassination, and it had earned her a great deal of respect on his part.

No one discussed the issue after that: not even the mention of a wedding, which teased at Zevran's curiosity for many nights. He'd even seen their leader wearing a wedding ring -- it was of elven make, and he doubted the other's recognized it for what it was. That, and he'd only barely glimpsed it when he'd been prowling around camp one night.

They'd managed to set up camp not too far from a natural spring, and though he could honestly say he didn't mean for it to happen, he came upon Akana bathing. He hadn't been able to see too much (though what he saw he certainly had no complaints about), because he'd quickly excused himself. Not out of honor, of course -- needless chivalry was Alistair's domain, not his -- but because if Akana was exposed, without her armor, there could be no doubt that the damn Mabari was around. And his pride demanded that he not be caught peeping at a lass like some urchin whelp. In any case, before he'd left, he'd seen the ring: it was made into a crude necklace, a thin leather strap passing through the loop and tied around her neck. He'd never seen it before (or again, for that matter) because he assumed she kept it under her armor.

As caring as he saw that the Lady could be, he still found it difficult to imagine her as a wife. This attachment to a small material item, a behavior he never saw from her on any other occasion, only made her more intriguing.

So this was Leliana's boon, then, and perhaps another way of apologizing (she'd done so profusely the next night at camp, and Akana had stonily muttered that they should forget about it -- and had not accepted the apology). It was a interestingly political move, as well, so soon after Akana had asked that the elves begin receiving equal treatment in Denerim as far of her boon from the Queen.

"What say you then, my friend and Ferelden's savior?" Leliana looked over the Hall, where hundreds of bodies waited with bated breath.

"It is not all my story to tell," Akana answered with a pragmatism not typical of her -- which usually meant that she was being considerate on someone else's behalf. It was about the only time she even attempted something like tact.

"It's okay, cousin." A female voice spoke from across the table, strong and not so different from Akana's own. Shianni. Zevran raised an eyebrow. Akana's female cousin was much easier on the eyes than Soris, and if she was half the fighter Akana was-

And then Zevran put two and two together, and his brow furrowed. The cousin that was... _abused_ by the Arl's son? Zevran had grown up in a whorehouse: violence against women was hardly an unfamiliar phenomenon. Still, it did spark his rage. Why should he care, really? But he'd been drinking and now everything meant something, of course. His protective urges towards Akana, though he was certain they did not rival Alistair's suffocating mothering, transferred in part to her kith and kin.

Heads had swiveled towards the new voice. Zevran imagined it was the first time many of the men assembled had heard two elves speak from a place of importance in the same month, let alone the same night. Akana appeared to take heart in this, though her mouth drew into a thin line. Another burden, another responsibility: not even twenty-four hours after solving Ferelden's most pressing problem, and now they were asking the Warden to take up another. Zevran thought this terribly unfair, but it was impossible to unring the bell, as it were.

"People should know what life is like in the Alienage -- even _before_ the Purge and the slavery," Shianni continued, and Zevran was delighted to watch Anora's face, in all its powdery blandness, twist in distaste. Her father, of course, had been responsible for the slavery at least. And Akana might not have slain the traitor herself, but she'd allowed Alistair to do so. Even that had been an act of love, in its own way: surely she knew how he burned to end the man who had cost him his mentor and the Warden comrades they might have known.

Leliana saw that Akana was setting herself to start the tale, and sat once again. There was a quick, nervous murmuring amongst the nobility that ended when Akana opened her glacial eyes.

"It was my wedding day..." the Hero of Ferelden began. Zevran was concerned at the jarring hollowness in her voice. It was not a tone he had ever heard the woman adopt before: there was the warrior's cry, the teasing banter, even the righteous fury. But there had never been such emptiness; never anything so dismal. She sounded haunted as she spoke of what took place.

Akana was no Bard, but whatever desolate emotion fueled her made her simple words and diction as captivating as any song. As she went on the elves seated at her table sat taller and prouder, while Zevran saw many of the nobles shrinking back into their seats, consciously or not. A brooding scowl never lifted from Alistair's face. Leliana's eyes glittered: she was recording every bit of this to memory, to craft into a tale of her own. Wynne's expressions ranged between pain and sadness. Oghren grumbled obscenities at the villains in the tale.

"...and when I did reach Vaughan, he tried to cut me a deal." By this point most of the nobles weren't just cringing, more than a few of them had gone dead-pale. Interestingly, there were a couple who looked appropriately outraged about the injustice. "It involved taking some money to keep quiet, and leaving my cousin -- and the other kidnapped elven women of the Alienage -- at the castle overnight for his _amusement_."

"I believe that's quite enough," Queen Anora interjected, and the tension in the room suddenly became hostile. Every companion started: Oghren grabbed for his axe, and not finding it, reached for an empty bottle of wine; Leliana stood in a huff; Wynne rose her hands, already sensing the incoming violence; Sten braced himself against the table to rise; Alistair sneered with such vehemence that his handsome features were distorted almost beyond recognition.

Zevran himself was not unaffected: he found himself already glancing around, judging the nobility, looking for those that might come to the Queen's aid. The only one who seemed wholly unperturbed was Akana herself -- something quite strange, given that it was usually she who was the quickest to rush into a fight, save perhaps for Oghren.

The silence in the Great Hall was no longer respectful, but downright _deadly._ Akana looked at her companions and held up one hand, stilling their movements. The Queen was mortified, eyes large and frightened as she seemed to realize just how beyond her control these men and women were, these guests of honor. Zevran doubted that Alistair or Wynne could be counted on if a fight broke out here, but even without them the violence could be catastrophic.

"I only meant that, you see, it was a crime, and it should not be taken lightly, the murder of a noble's son, if there was a problem you might have reported it-"

"Stop. Speaking." The words were little more than a growl, but they carried throughout the room. The unease was a thing palpable now, alive, constricting them all in the growing claustrophobia of panic. One did not tell the Queen to shut her trap. On the other hand... one did not interrupt an Honored Guest, let alone a Grey Warden. A Grey Warden who had just defeated an Archdemon and stopped a Blight? There were fewer of those in history than Kings and Queens, that was for sure. And they were a damn sight more revered.

"I put that crown on your head, Anora" _-and she could just as easily remove it, along _with _your head,_ Zevran thought- "and this is the Kingdom you've inherited. I may ask that you do not disrespect me again, but I _demand_ that you not disrespect my people, who have lived amongst you as little more than slaves. You will not interfere with Leliana's boon, either." Zevran had seen Akana's anger before, definitely, but usually it was a thing that flared white hot, charring everything in its wake. This was something else: cold-blooded, venomous. He smirked; they were all still standing at the ready, waiting for her order, any order.

Akana's voice rose to show that she was addressing the Hall again, though her eyes did not leave the Queen's. _Not smart to make enemies in high places, my dear,_ Zevran thought to himself, but he appreciated her tenacity.

"I killed the Arl's son, Vaughan. I slaughtered him. His blood ran hot upon the same stones where he had raped my cousin because he thought her less than human, nothing but an _elf_." Her eyes bore into Queen Anora's, daring her to say more, though the Queen must have come to her senses, and kept her mouth shut. "And I swear upon the name of my murdered betrothed, I would do it again, without hesitation."

Zevran was caught between a wince and a smirk: Akana might be able to sweep any fighting mage, rogue, or warrior of his or her feet, but this was not the same attitude which nobility tended to look kindly on. Then again, it _was_ the attitude that ended the Blight. Akana turned back to the long table, and gave the slightest of nods to her companions, who all visibly relaxed back into their places.

"After I returned to the Alienage, it wasn't long before the guards came. They wanted to take me for hanging. I was prepared to let them, when Duncan stepped in. He conscripted me on the spot." Akana stepped back slightly from the table. "That is how I became a Grey Warden."

There was no applause, only silence. It was hard to say what the audience found more appalling: the story itself, or the Warden's utter dismissal of the Queen.

"You left out the best part." Zevran turned quickly to the voice that had spoken beside him -- the elf he'd grown to hate in such a short time. Akana narrowed her eyes at her cousin, mouth twitching at the slightest hint of a smirk; the first sign of life returning to her expression.

"Oh? And what's that, Soris?"

"How you acted when you met your first Grey Warden. The warrior Duncan, Maker bless him and keep him." Yes, they all knew Duncan's name very well now -- Akana and Alistair had already arranged so that a monument to him and all the fallen Wardens at Ostagar would be built just inside the city's main gates, for all visitors to see.

Akana blanched, becoming at once less intimidating and more endearing all over. "Soris..."

"Wait now," Alistair piped up, letting a sly grin pass over his features. There was a game in this that Zevran did not understand yet, but Alistair had already rooted it out. The tension that had seized the Hall slowly began to uncurl its fingers, and breathing came easier to soldier and noble alike. "This sounds like a story _I'd_ like to hear."

The Lady shuffled on her feet like a shying mare. "Duncan came into the Alienage shortly after we'd run out Vaughan's men the first time. I thought he might cause trouble so I... asked him to leave." It was hard to even call it a lie -- from the shifting of her gaze to the floor and the softening of her tone, it was obvious that she wasn't telling the truth and that she wasn't doing much to cover it up, either.

Zevran laughed aloud: he understood the game now. Soris and Alistair were men after the same heart, and they sought to lighten the mood. Akana, cleverer and far more charming than she gave herself credit for, was just playing the part they were setting her up for. She'd shown her strength, her wrath, and now it was time for something a little more relatable. Lovable.

"Asked him to leave?" Soris half-shouted, so that the entire Hall could hear him. He pushed himself back from the table so that he could stand. "Asked him to _leave_, dear cousin!" Soris shook his head. "No, no no. Ladies and Gentleman, allow me to paint for you a picture." Now Soris didn't just gesture expansively with his hands and voice -- he hopped up onto the seat of his chair, adding another two feet to his height. Already the concerned frowns around them began to fade into smiles.

"On the one hand we have dear Akana, cousin of mine, clad in not plate, not chain, not even leather -- but a wedding garment. A dress! And looking as lovely a bride as ever, might I add!" Soris added hastily, feigning a cringe in his cousin's direction, as if she might hurl something at him. In truth, she stood with her arms crossed, accepting the show good-naturedly. "On the other, Grey Warden Duncan, uniformed in silver armor that shone so bright it could blind you if you stared too long -- and his weapons! Two blades of make so fine they _had_ to be forged by a dwarven smith!"

Zevran found himself forgiving the fool slowly, if only for the lengths he was going to divert ill will that might have been leveled at his cousin.

"Akana, the flower that she is, suggests that we run him out. I, of course, only accompany her so that there will be someone to clean up the mess. But at any rate, she strides right up to this warrior without one faltering step -- and me cowering behind her the whole way -- and stops in front of him, crossing her arms. Much like that, actually." Soris jerked a thumb to where Akana was standing, arms linked. Without uncrossing her arms much, she raised one hand in a rude gesture to him, which earned more than a few hearty laughs.

"'Good day,' the Grey Warden says. 'I understand congratulations are in order for your impending wedding.' And Maker's breath, he's as polite as they come! But Akana, she doesn't hesitate. She's very _protective_, you see, and what with the bad experience earlier... Anyway, she tells him, she says- I'm not making this up! She says, '_Let's talk about your impending beating._'"

The impression, despite the differences attributed to size and gender, was uncannily good. Zevran snickered, and while the whole room seemed to be warming up, none were so entertained as Akana's companions. Alistair managed to laugh and gasp at once, turning to her with a smile still wide on his mouth.

"You didn't. Oh, you _didn't._ He's lying!" Alistair took one look at the mock-surly glare on Akana's face, and burst into howling _peels_ of laughter.

"BUT SHE DID! And there's more!" Soris shouted. The crowd was ready now, much more relaxed, eager to hear a less macabre story about their Heroine's life before the Wardens. "So the Grey Warden laughs -- a nice laugh too, not the kind of laugh you get right before someone sinks a knife between your ribs -- and asks if dear Akana is threatening him." The elf adopted a haughty pose, one hip jutting femininely to the side, and still so much like his cousin. "_'Yes.'_"

Zevran coughed up another involuntary, snorting chuckle. No, their leader would not try to attempt something witty or verbose: she much preferred to let brute force do her talking. The blunt defiance in Soris's tone was perfect.

Any composure that Alistair had held on to fell apart at that word: he began laughing so hard that he was crying, and Zevran was sure that the effect of the drink was only making the situation rile him further. Not that it _wasn't_ funny: plenty of people were laughing now, including the nobility. But the Templar had his head down on the table, arms crossed over his face to muffle the rounds of laughter -- which, once he seemed to be ready to get himself under control, would start all over again with a boyish giggle.

"'Surely it does not escape your notice,'" Soris continued in the deeper, slower voice that was meant to be Duncan's. Zevran had never known the man, so it was impossible for him to judge its accuracy. If it was as good as his impression of Akana, however, then it was likely spot on. "'But I am both armed and armored. Any fight between us would be... rather one sided.'" He turned as if talking to the voice he'd just impersonated, taking up the cross-armed stance that signaled he was Akana again. He didn't say anything, though. Just gave an apathetic shrug.

"It's perfect," Alistair groaned through his own laughter, as if so much joy was causing him incredible pain. "I can just _see _it. Oh _Maker_, someone make him stop! I'm dying!"

Soris smiled lopsidedly, standing straight again. "Luckily, that's when the Elder arrived, and vouched for the Grey Warden. Otherwise, I'm sure Akana would have found her way into a much deserved thrashing." At that, the story-teller bowed -- to such applause that Zevran could feel the table shaking -- and then took his seat.


	6. Revelry, Pt 3

**A/N**: Once more, thank you for the reviews! I will try to reply to all of them, and if I haven't replied to you, feel free to yell at me. =) There is one from someone not-registered (looking at you, futeki!) so I will say thank you here. I'm very glad to have you all along for the ride this far.

Anyway, this concludes Zevran's first chapter (a three-parter at that!). Next up is Alistair, and then another chapter from Akana's point of view, which is likely to be another multi-parter.

By the way: I am very open to constructive criticism as well. I am overjoyed that some of you have expressed that you think the character representations are truthful, but I feel that I'll be gradually taking more and more liberties as the story progresses. Let me know if you ever feel that something is fundamentally out-of-character.

* * *

**Zevran**

_'Cause we all wanna party when the funeral ends,  
And we all get together when we bury our friends.  
- My Chemical Romance_

_

* * *

  
_

It took a few minutes before the room returned to a manageable level of noise... and a few minutes more before Alistair could sit upright in his chair without doubling over again in gasping merriment. It didn't help that Akana kept giving him pointed glares, which only started the whole thing over again. Zevran was pretty sure that Akana was aware of the effect she was having on the Templar, and that she was doing it on purpose.

When some semblance of order had returned to the Hall, the Grey Warden faced one of the most respected and valuable members of their company: Wynne. "What boon would you ask?"

Despite the jovial atmosphere, Wynne smiled cryptically, and it did not reach her eyes. It was strange to see, from someone so trustworthy. Had she simply not approved of the antics before? Everyone knew that the mage treated both the Wardens like adopted children, and that they in turn saw her as a surrogate grandmother. This was especially true in Alistair's case, but Akana also sought out her advice frequently.

"I would ask nothing of you, Lady Tabris," the healer replied politely, with that same enigmatic expression. He felt the carefree happiness from just a moment ago begin to trickle away. It was just him, for now -- no one else seemed at all disturbed.

"Haven't we been over this? You aren't weaseling your way out of this one, Wynne. Surely there is something I can offer."

"Well, there is something," Wynne said slowly, and Zevran felt his hackles rise, all set on edge at the tone of the older woman's voice. He couldn't explain it, and though he owed his life to trusting those gut feelings rather than suppressing them, he _had_ to doubt them now. Wynne was... well, she wasn't _him_ or _Morrigan_ or even _Leliana_, to say the least. She wasn't a secretive person. "I would ask the full truth in an answer to a question of my choosing."

Akana blinked, and smiled, completely unaware of the trap that Wynne was leading her into by the nose. "Of course, Wynne. Please, ask away." Zevran might not know the nature of the trap -- much less it's _purpose_ -- but he could not debate that it was a trap. No one publicly requested the truth unless they knew they wouldn't get it otherwise. And the truth was a powerful and often ugly thing indeed. If Wynne thought there was some bit of information Akana was holding close to her chest, Zevran couldn't imagine that it was pleasant. Especially not if-

"It is a personal question, my Lady, and I would ask it private, at some later time. If that is acceptable...?"

Any doubts that the Assassin had vanished, and he thrummed his fingers on the table. It was the only sign of his agitation. It wasn't just the wine messing with his mind: Wynne had something up her sleeve, and it if was anything harmless, she would have announced it publicly.

"Oh," Akana replied, clearly confused, but suspecting nothing. "Of course. At your convenience then." Akana's complete lack of suspicion only made it more difficult for Zevran to witness. She trusted the mage so utterly, so _readily_, and what in all of the Maker's creation could Wynne be plotting?

Wouldn't _that_ just be bitter irony, though. They'd always been so sure he'd be the one to stab someone in the back. Now the one person they'd never worried over had a clean, wide-open shot. Zevran made a note to follow-up on Wynne's little "question." Even if he had to slip some sleeping drug in the damn Mabari's food, he was going to be around -- unseen, of course -- whenever _that_ conversation took place.

Akana's eyes moved over to the ever-stoic Sten. "What boon might I grant you, my Qunari friend?"

Sten mulled this over carefully. He did not speak often, that much was obvious, but he made up for it by meaning what he said. He _certainly_ didn't waste anyone's time with trying to refuse the offer. "In my lands, we sometimes train wardogs," he began in his deep baritone. "But we have no beasts so fine as your Mabari." Akana nodded quickly, already understanding. If there was anyone who Sten had bonded with at camp, it'd probably been Yorick. It was a sensible thing to ask for, too. "I would ask for such a hound as a companion."

"Of course. Imprinting may take some time, but you're welcome to stay for as long as you desire. I will also see to it that when you return home a few breeding pairs and their trainers will accompany you, at least until their skills have been passed on to your people."

Sten seemed taken aback by this, the slightest hint of surprise registering on his features. "That would be... most generous, Warden."

Akana smiled and nodded, clearly pleased to grant a boon that didn't have any hidden meaning to it.

Now she turned to Oghren, who, to his credit, was still fully clothed and in a state of something _like_ coherence, even if it wasn't that exactly. The dwarf kept saying that he was "waiting for the real party to start" before he drunk them all under the table like the schoolgirls they were. Zevran suspected that Oghren was actually trying _not_ to get blackout drunk, which was an... unexpected development.

Maybe he wanted to actually remember what may well be the most glorious night of his life. Maybe he did have the slightest scruples about embarrassing himself at such a honored celebration. Maybe the real party _hadn't_ started yet. It was hard to say. Before Akana could ask, Oghren raised his tankard.

"I want you to pass me another tankard of this ale."

Akana blinked. "That's your boon?"

"Ye-heyup," the dwarf responded, hiccuping halfway through.

There were a few displeased frowns, but Akana merely tilted her head to the side in a quizzical gesture that Zevran was sure she'd picked up from her hound. It was much more endearing on her, however. "You're sure?"

"You're damned right I'm sure! How many insignificant sods like me do you know who can say they've taken a swig from same pint as the woman that saved all our sorry asses from a Blight?" It was amazingly cogent for the drunkard, and actually rather poignant.

"We've shared plenty of drinks before, Oghren," Akana replied with a sly grin. And it was true: the Warden had accepted his drinking challenges on more than a handful of occasions, and though she could easily out-drink any of the rest of them, the dwarf always got the better of her. She was never a sore loser about it either.

Once Zevran had overheard her explaining to Leliana that beating everyone else was a matter of pride, but when it came to a boozing contest with Oghren, it was better for your peace of mind if you didn't fight to stay conscious. Even if you could stomach the stories of his sexual escapades (tales which even Zevran tended to find unflattering and a touch repulsive), it usually wasn't long before the dwarf began stripping down. And then, as Akana had put it, then you _wished_ you'd passed out.

"Yeh," Oghren answered, "But _not since you killed an Archdemon,_ eh?"

Akana's grin was mischievous and, of course, a wonderful thing to look upon. "Well, when you put it like _that._" She reached for her own cup -- not so much a tankard but a lavish goblet -- and took a gulp of the amber liquid. Zevran found himself all too observant of the way her throat worked, the curve of her jaw, the small rivulet of ale that ran down to her collarbone...

Then, with all the liquid grace of a big cat, she hopped up onto the table. Even as intoxicated as she was, she barely swayed, and didn't spill a drop from the ornate chalice in her left hand. It was times like this when Zevran wondered why the woman hadn't chosen a fighting style with more _finesse_. She definitely had all the necessary physical capabilities: she was stronger than all of them save perhaps Sten (and even then he would be hard-pressed to bet against her), and he'd seen her balance a dagger -- blade-first -- on her tongue for fifteen minutes once. All while holding one foot behind her back with both hands and occasionally giving a small bounce to hear Leliana squeal.

She probably could have gone on longer, too, if Wynne hadn't woken to Oghren's cheers, Yorick's baying, and Alistair's feverish recital of the things that could go _wrong_ in this situation, including _blindness._ Morrigan and Zevran had both watched silently. The healer put a stop to it fairly efficiently, scolding them all for acting like hooligans and cheap side-show performers, before grouchily returning to bed. Akana had waited till the gray-haired woman was out of sight before turning promptly to Oghren and collecting bet money. He'd forked it over with one hand, and clapped her heavily on the back with the other.

Actually, the story probably explained perfectly why Akana, for all her physical prowess, was no rogue. There wasn't much room for bravado in an rogue's line of work: success depended on an enemy underestimating your skills enough to lose sight of you, rather than seeing you as an immediate threat. And on the battlefield, Akana was more likely to let out a fierce howl to leave her enemies quaking in their boots rather than try to sneak around and stab them in the back. As the one that was supposed to always stand between them and danger, shield at the ready, it had to drive Alistair crazy.

_In more ways than one,_ Zevran thought to himself as the Warden walked over to them. Even the way she moved was fearless, inherently predatory. Maybe it wasn't the sultry _stalk_ of an Assassin, but it was still powerful, provocative in its own right-

Zevran stirred in his seat, sat back further. He hooked one elbow casually over the back of the chair. Akana didn't have to look down once to check that she didn't step into a pot of gravy or kick over a tankard. She didn't look at him either, though, and that was... more frustrating than it should have been, really. When she reached Oghren, she knelt on the table, extended the goblet to him.

"Don't choke on it," she growled amiably.

"Iff'n I do," Oghren grinned back lecherously, accepting the goblet. "Will you give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?"

"I'm not falling for _that_ trick again," Akana barked in laughter. Ah, yes. Another event during one of their drink-offs. As the story went, Oghren feigned a choking fit and lay prone on the ground, this shortly after telling Akana a tale that he'd once saved a good friend who had drowned by blowing air into their mouth. When her attempts failed to revive Oghren, Akana ran shouting through camp until she'd pulled Wynne from her tent.

Wynne had had to explain in which instances mouth-to-mouth resuscitation was necessary, and they did not include when a scheming dwarf took advantage of a very drunk party leader who cared more deeply for her companions than she often let on.

Alistair hadn't spoken to Oghren for _days_ afterwards, which of course was only more incentive for Oghren to torment him ceaselessly about it. Akana had just settled for kicking Oghren's ass good and hard: she didn't hold a grudge, and Oghren seemed to think it was a fair punishment. Zevran wondered if the dwarf _enjoyed_ it, even, but if there were any sexual topics he wouldn't touch, anything regarding Oghren fell squarely into that category.

"Fool me once, shame on you, you gods-damned nug-humper."

"I'll drink to that!" Oghren bellowed in high-spirits, and chugged the remaining contents of the goblet. In mid-gulp, Akana leaned forward and gave his shortly cropped red hair a rough tussle. Oghren coughed, snorting ale through his nose from the sound of it. When he polished off the drink, he wiped his mouth heavily on the back of his arm. He was blushing furiously.

"You're a good woman, Akana Tabris." His voice was too low to travel far, and in that moment it was entirely sober. Tears welled in the dwarf's eyes.

"Thanks," she replied easily, half-smiling down at him. "But don't go telling anyone. I've got a reputation to mind."

"Aye," Oghren's mouth opened into a wide, jeering smile. "Don't we all." He filled the goblet with more ale from one of the jugs on the table, rose it in salute to her, and drank. With a short cheer, the rest of the Hall followed suit.

Akana stood fully, still on the tabletop, before she turned her attention on Zevran. She stared down at him for a long while, taking in his casual, half-splayed posture. He returned the gesture, allowing his eyes to rove upwards from her boots. That was the best thing about the woman: she played along so well. For him it was an artform -- for her it was just another dagger to balance, a game of chicken.

"And what in the world can I do for the Assassin who has everything?"

"Me? Everything? You must have me confused with some _other_ Assassin, my Lady." Zevran clucked his tongue. Beside him, Soris shifted in discomfort. _And where is Alistair now?_ Zevran wanted to ask the joking brat. The Templar remained at the head of the table, in his place: bound by propriety to wait like a good little toy soldier, rooted to his spot.

"I don't think so," Akana answered, one eyebrow raised. "Protection, glory, fame, riches." Her mouth twitched, and he read the words in her smirk that she also meant, but would not say aloud: _lovers more numerous than even _your_ wildest dreams._ He wondered, briefly, why she was playing with him like this. Not that he objected -- far from it -- but it was a curious thing.

"Ah yes, well, in that case, perhaps you are right, my Lady. What more could I ask for?" He placed the ball neatly back into her court; she would reveal herself before long if he was patient.

"I was thinking that you were in need of something to keep you company on those harsh Ferelden nights. Something with a little more _fulfillment_ in it than cold hard coin." Zevran saw Wynne shaking her head in disapproval, eyes closed. Leliana, though, had her delicate fingers cupped over her mouth, giggling, eyes wide. He imagined that he could hear the creak of Alistair's molars grinding. He himself was little unnerved: the banter was just banter, as it always was with Akana. "You know. Like a collected anthology of the capital's best poetry or something."

Zevran did not smile with his mouth, though he felt the warmth rise into his gaze, and saw that she recognized it. He had spoken of poetry with her before, yes- Akana hadn't seemed to know quite what to do with it, but had taken pains not to offend him by saying so, and that had been almost as rewarding as if she'd been able to appreciate it. She didn't have a particular taste for fine things, and Zevran had pondered from time to time if it was simply because she'd never experienced any -- what with her history in the Alienage, and then travelling the continent as a wanted woman in order to end a Blight. Then again, anyone who could eagerly slurp down Alistair's awful campfire meals with such enthusiasm may have been beyond rescue.

In any case, she had remembered his love of poetry, even if she hadn't shared in it. Their leader was prone to these little acts of kindness and grace, signs that she truly listened when they spoke, and took their pains and happiness and memories to heart. And though a few volumes of fine poetry would be a handsome gift indeed, Zevran knew what he would ask for instead.

"But my Lady," he replied smoothly, voice like silk. Her eyelids flickered, the only visible sign that she knew the tables were turning. "Riches can buy poetry, no? And if I am now as wealthy as you claim, then it would be a shameful waste for me to spend my one and only boon on something I could simply purchase. Indeed, I must ask for something which cannot be bought." He cocked his head to the side, smirking up at her.

"Such as?"

"A kiss."

Akana's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she fumbled for a quick reply. "Perhaps you've been a while away from Antiva, my Crow, but you can certainly buy kisses in Ferelden-"

"-Not from the Warden who ended the Blight," he interjected evenly, voice quiet and controlled. He could feel the heat of anger radiating off of Soris, but did not spare the cousin a glance. Akana seemed to mull this over, though Zevran already knew that he'd won. If they were back in camp, or anywhere else, it would have ended differently.

She would have bantered and joked and dodged and evaded -- not quite skilled enough with words to effectively elude him in one or two lines (she could have taken lessons from Morrigan in that regard), but rather wearing him down to the point that he exhausted his repertoire of innuendo. Now, for example, she might have argued that her kisses _could_ be bought, but only in gold dragon scales. Or, what was more likely, she would have pointed him towards Alistair, patted him on the shoulder, and wished him good luck.

Now, though, she was pinned. He wondered if she'd be cross with him, but he very much doubted it. It wasn't in her nature to stay bitter at any of her companions, and she took defeat (at least in friendly competition) well. Besides, if she could forgive him for trying to assassinate her, Zevran couldn't imagine that he'd be in very much trouble for requesting a kiss. Of course, Alistair hadn't forgiven him for the incident, and this was only going to drive the Templar a little madder. But Zevran could hardly feel guilty for that: the boy needed to be reminded of what he had, every so often.

"All right," Akana accepted, reluctant but without any sort of malice. The idea of the kiss didn't seem to bother her quite so much as the fact that Zevran had so efficiently trumped her -- which made the conquest sweeter.

"What?!" Alistair shouted from his spot at the table. He pointed a butter knife threateningly in Zevran's direction. "You're not _really _going to fall for all that sod, _are_ you?"

_Ah, but the pup does have some bite. Only prickly milk-teeth, of course, but it is an improvement over the toothless mewling. _

"Of course, if my Lady's Knight objects..." Zevran replied graciously, trapping Alistair in politeness and worries about appearances. Alistair lowered the blunt bit of silver, grumbling under his breath but saying no more. Akana seemed all too acutely aware of pressures upon her: denying a boon, especially a harmless one, would be dishonorable. Then again, she often caved to Alistair's notions of what was proper behavior and what wasn't. Zevran saw the gears churning in her mind, the balancing act of weighing either side.

_It doesn't mean anything,_ he could all but hear her thinking to herself. _Alistair doesn't understand that, but it really doesn't. It's just a stupid kiss._

In the end, she merely gazed down at him and gave him an inviting smile -- one he'd seen her wield before, but never in _his_ direction. "Well?" She asked, curt and blunt as ever. Zevran snickered to himself.

He didn't exactly jump up onto the table as she had, though he easily could have. Rather, Zevran stepped from the seat of his chair onto the tabletop as if it were nothing more than a step in a normal staircase. When he approached her he was surprised at the pleasant, nervous feeling in his tendons. How long had it been since he felt a bit jittery before a kiss? It was hard to remember such a time.

"You _devil,_" he heard Leliana exclaim through a tittering, musical laugh. "You are, you _really_ are."

He half turned his face towards her, glancing at the Bard from the corner of his eyes. "Oh Leliana," he smirked, "Jealousy does not become you."

"I am _not_-" Leliana turned pink and rosy, and withdrawing into her seat, voice fading. "...jealous."

Zevran grinned, feeling quite impish indeed, and faced Akana once more. She didn't draw back from him, but he could see that she was bracing herself, as if she was expecting a blow rather than a kiss. He knew enough to realize that this reaction had nothing to do with him or even his sorted past, and everything to do with the Templar whose glare was burning holes into her back. The Assassin had to fight to quell the spark of fury that ignited in his chest.

Zevran closed the distance between them with an a fluid stride. He cupped the side of her face gently, rubbing her cheekbone for a second with the pad of his thumb. Her brows drew together in a light scowl, as if bewildered by the gentle touch. She'd expected something more flashy, most likely. Something that she could laugh away.

His mind traveled back, for an instant, to the night before the last battle. There had been a moment between them, the only other time they'd both been this close. He could see that she was remembering it too, but what she thought was impossible to know.

Before the Warden could say something off-color and ruin the moment, Zevran kissed her. His eyes closed instinctively, feeling the press of her mouth on his. Her lips were softer than he had imagined they would be, though he realized that there was no reason why they _shouldn't_ be supple. With one hand gently holding her face, he placed the other on her waist. Not _terribly_ low, either, because crassness was nothing worth striving for.

Akana didn't seem to know what _she _should be doing with her hands, but ended up with one perched against his chest, and the other lightly gripping his wrist. They might have looked like small marks of compassion, but Zevran knew them for what they were: at any moment this went south, the Warden could easily shove him hard enough that he landed on his ass in someone's half-eaten stew. And break his arm in the process.

But safe-guards or no, it was still a lovely experience. She tilted her head slightly, and did indeed grant his boon and kiss him back, instead of simply standing there like a statue. It was rare and rather pleasant to embrace a woman of his own kind; most of his seduction techniques had been levied against human targets. Zevran found that she smelled of the mead she'd been drinking, but underneath that there was something more intimate, all spicy-sweet like cinnamon and citrus. Before overstaying his already questionable welcome, Zevran pulled his lips away.

The grip on his wrist tightened enough to be slightly painful, surprising him. His eyes darted to hers, mildly alarmed. They were so close that he breathed in the heat of her words.

"Stay away from my cousin," Akana warned, voice in a whisper so low that only he would hear. Her eyes were shining, edging on the more dangerous side of playful. The tightness of her fingers around his wrist was enough to remind him just _how_ bloody strong she was: she could probably crush the relatively fragile bones into powder, if she had the mind to. "Both of them. Or I swear, Zevran, they'll be able to send all that's left of you home in one of your Antivan boots."

The threat, her proximity, the deadly-sharp certainty in her storm-gray eyes: all these things sent an electric volt of desire down his spine. Zevran was both relieved and disappointed that their bodies were not pressed tightly together. "As you wish, Lady." He inclined his head in the faintest of nods. Akana glanced over his face, decided that she believed in his sincerity, and took a step back.

Blood returned to his fingers in a rush, tingling like pin-pricks. When Akana turned her back to him to return to the head of the table, Zevran glanced over her shoulder at Alistair. He was staring down at his plate, a tic rhythmically beating in the set of his jaw.

It did not escape Zevran's notice that a bit of metal lay twisted on the table by the Templar's side. It took him a second to understand what he was seeing: a butter knife, which had been horribly bent out of shape by a clenching fist.

Doing his best not to gloat, Zevran returned to his seat.


	7. Passion

**A/N: **I apologize in advance.

* * *

**Alistair**

_"Passion... it lies in all of us. Sleeping, waiting, and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir, open its jaws, and howl. It speaks to us, guides us... passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have?"  
- Angel, Buffy the Vampire Slayer _

* * *

Here, here, we have to stop here-" Alistair laughed, dragging Akana along like a puppet. They were both _obscenely_ drunk, and getting back to their room (well, her room, but anyone who thought they would be sleeping separately was kidding themselves at this point) had turned into an adventure. The Templar turned abruptly, and the sudden stop in motion caused Akana to crash into him. They both stumbled, but amazingly did not fall, and laughed at each other. "Here," Alistair repeated again, and leaned down to kiss her fully and wetly.

Neither of them were certain of the exact rules of the game, but so far it amounted to stopping and kissing every dozen steps or so. At first it had only been at landmarks, or at right turns, or when the moon peeked out from behind one of the tall Denerim buildings: now though, there was no rhyme or reason to it, only a blissful chaos.

It was the happiest Alistair had ever been, and the only times that came close where from his first few months as a Grey Warden, before Ostagar had all but eliminated their Ferelden ranks. Even Zevran showing off, or whatever it had been, hadn't been able to dampen his good mood. What was there _not_ to love in the world right now, anyway? They'd beaten the Blight, the love of his life was here with him, and the two of them were drunker than all the sailors on the sea.

The streets were still in joyous uproar, though they were quieter than they had been in hours as many revelers seemed to have retired: either passing out or celebrating the occasion in more private pursuits. He remembered Zevran leaving with no less than three admirers in tow: a noble-lady amongst them. Akana's cousin, Shianni, had approached the Assassin shortly after the feast ended, but as far as Alistair could tell, Zevran had actually turned the pretty red-haired elf away. Which was none of his business really. He'd only noticed because, well, he'd been glaring at him for what felt like half the night. It _was_ strange though: Zevran wasn't exactly picky, and Shianni was beautiful-

Not as beautiful as the fine elf woman whose throat he had his tongue halfway down, of course.

Akana pushed him away roughly, and he stumbled, nearly tripping. He clattered into the building beside him, bracing against it like gravity had suddenly done a corkscrew. When the world stopped spinning, he saw his lady tearing off her clothes. Or, at least, that's what it seemed like to his drink-addled mind.

"What are you doooing?!" He crooned, surprised but also interested.

"Taking- off- this- armor-" She replied, tugging fiercely at clasps and ties. "I'm tired of it. It's so flashy."

"Oh, the Queen's gonna be _pissed_, all that time it took them to find something nice that'd _fit_ you-"

"The Queen can take a ride on the Maker's sodding limp _cock_ for all I care, it's COMING OFF." Alistair giggled hysterically at the blasphemy before clasping a hand to his mouth like _he'd_ been the one to say it. Though he had no idea how Akana managed to unhinge all the tricky things in her state -- he could barely get himself into and out of his armor _sober_ -- she did, and quite quickly in fact. Now she stood before him in a silk shirt, as silvery and pure as her hair, and a pair of soft leather pants. Akana dropped the armor in the dirt like it was no more than a pile of firewood.

"You're just going to _leave_ it there? Right there?" Alistair pointed... somewhere in the general vicinity of the discard armor. His arm swayed in a big, weaving circle. "On the side of the _road?_"

"Yep," Akana replied with a grin, and then came over to where he was still leaning heavily against the wall. She pressed against him, and though he kind of _liked_ the way the armor had felt -- it'd been like every time she kissed him after a battle -- this was a lot softer... which was nice... and warmer... which was _very_ nice...

"But what if someone takes it?" Alistair asked, and blamed his incessant questions on the drinking. She shrugged, fingers tracing a line up and down his throat, which she was eyeing not unlike some of the rabid wolves they'd fought in the past. _What if one of the werewolves got her!_ He thought frantically-

"They can get more use out of it than I can, anyway. Shit wouldn't stop a good arrow. It's just for looks. I've got better." Yes, she never did have a strong attachment to material things, at least not based on wealth. Akana valued usefulness, and even sentiment to a lesser degree, but coin was nothing to her. She kissed him again, and he pulled her closer to him still.

"What if... what if gravity was suddenly going _this_ way instead of down? And you had to walk along all the buildings and drop inside through _windows-_" He babbled against her mouth and she responded by kissing him harder, until speaking wasn't an option at all. One thing led to another and Alistair suddenly found that one hand had slipped under the thin fabric of her shirt and the other was clutching a rather large handful of the esteemed Hero of Ferelden's rear end. Not that her rear was large, it wasn't, it was a good size, a perfect size, but-

"We need to get back to the estate," he said huskily. Akana's ever-nimble fingers had apparently already worked their way down all the buttons on his own expensive shirt, and they were making quick work of the fastenings at his pants.

He grabbed her hands in his-

_So small! How does she hold those swords! _

-and squeezed gently. The woman made a disappointed huffing sound, which was near enough to melt his resolve and let her continue, but he knew that if they went down _that_ path, well, it'd be really awkward waking up to a sunny, noontime crowd.

"Well then! No more detours!" He shouted triumphantly in the same voice that he used to rally troops in battle. "Off we go!" And, without thinking very much about it, Alistair scooped her into his arms. She made a small -- _gack!_ -- noise, and clung to his neck like the world had turned upside down. Alistair's first step was much too large, and he nearly fell and sent them both crashing to the ground. Thankfully he recovered, and set off for the Arl's Estate.

Though they passed quite a few equally drunken celebrators stumbling around the streets, no one seemed to recognize them. No one was looking too closely, and who would suspect that the last two Grey Wardens of Ferelden would be travelling by themselves, without some glorious entourage? A few times Alistair saw a pony-sized shadow trailing them, and knew it was Yorick. The Mabari had been on a diet of the finest scraps in all of Denerim for the past twenty-four hours, and Alistair just _knew_ that he was going to be spoiled. He'd never be able to bribe the pooch to stand guard we'll he and Akana -- got friendly? -- again. At least not with the awful leftovers he was _used_ to giving the hound.

The guards at the front of the Estate were out cold, one still gripping a jug of something strong. How Alistair managed to open the door without dropping Akana or knocking her head on something he'd never now, but get inside he did.

All the while he couldn't stop thinking of earlier, when Akana had come to him after her "speech." It wasn't awful (he doubted he could do better) but probably was nothing compared to what Leliana could have drawn up if they'd had the time. He'd waited patiently outside her room, and when he saw her coming down the hallway he couldn't help himself: he'd broken into a flat sprint, and she as well, and they'd collided in a way that felt like heaven (and a bunch of aching bruises smashing together, but he didn't really notice that part). If there were watching eyes he hadn't noticed them, and they'd shared a kiss that felt strong enough to stop time.

Of course everyone would have thought that what came next was the sort of thing that would make a Revered Mother go blind-and-deaf-and-dumb all at once if she saw it, but that _hadn't_ happened. Both of them had blundered into the bedroom -- which had been littered with rose petals by some diligent servant on the orders of a well-meaning caretaker, undoubtedly -- and then fallen roughly onto the bed.

They'd both slept like the dead for at least six hours. Leliana had found them there when the Feast drew near, and they'd still been wearing their grime-coated armor. It was only by some miracle that they'd thought to remove their sword belts, and Alistair had already unstrapped his shield downstairs. The lovely satin sheets had been positively _ruined_, but neither of them had given a damn: it was the best dark and dreamless rest that they'd gotten since before Ostagar.

Now, though, Alistair planned to make up for the lost opportunity. When he reached their closed door he returned Akana to her feet, where she lurched woozily for a moment before steadying herself. Carrying her hadn't been too much strain: she didn't weigh any more than his usual armor and shield, neither of which he was wearing. She leaned against the door frame as he fumbled with the lock.

"I'm glad I'm alive," Akana murmured so low that Alistair wasn't sure he heard her correctly at first. The lock finally popped, and the heavy door swung open. When he looked up at her, there was a forlorn expression on her face -- one that he'd only really seen her wear in her sleep, when the nightmares came. She didn't have a habit of gazing into the firepit at camp, looking all tortured-leader. It was like she didn't want to worry any of them. And, for the most part, it had worked: Alistair tended to forget that she _was_ just as affected by the Blight as the rest of them. "It's... it's so selfish to say when so many have had to die, but gods, I'm glad I'm alive."

Her eyes, crystalline in their pale blue-grey hues, looked at him. Despite the sorrow in her voice, there were no tears standing there, and Alistair realized that he hadn't seen her cry, well, ever.

_And I've blubbered enough for the both of us,_ he scolded himself. Alistair wondered if her ever-dry eyes came from some kind of sheer willpower, or if Akana just didn't register tears as a valid expression of one's feelings. She wasn't a reserved, emotionless person -- she just never cried.

Alistair didn't know how to respond. He wanted to say it wasn't selfish, but that was exactly how he'd felt ever since the relief of having her back had subsided enough that he could acknowledge anything else. Selfish. Greedy. Ashamed. If he had been stronger, he would have refused the deal with Morrigan and just killed the damned Archdemon himself. But he'd failed... on both accounts. He told himself that what happened between him and Morrigan had been for Akana's sake -- and sure enough his love would be dead now, if not for what he'd done -- but it was just as much for him. Alistair could neither imagine living in a world without her, or... or leaving a world she was still in. He'd wanted to live just as badly as she did, if only because living meant spending more time with her.

So, instead of trying to say something that he didn't mean, or that would just come out wrong _anyway_, he kissed her. He wanted it to be sweet and touching and to say all the things he couldn't properly fit into words. And it was; it did.

But then, of course, he ruined it.

"Mmphm," Akana made a pleased noise that hummed against his lips, and he withdrew, smiling.

And he _knew_, even as the question tumbled out of his stupid _mouth_, that it was wrong, all wrong. But that didn't stop him, did it?

"Better than Zevran?" He asked her, and the look that flashed across her eyes first was confusion. The attack, however couched in humor, had been sprung upon her from someone she trusted fully. Akana rarely showed her vulnerability, and the fact that she'd just exposed the soft underbelly of her insecurity made the jibe bite in more deeply.

But the confusion was quickly replaced with anger. Sure they traded barbs frequently as a sign of affection, but her response was more than that: tit-for-tat. And he should have known it would be as much -- retaliation was a reflex for her.

When m'lady was hit, she hit back.

Usually twice as hard.

"'Course," she smirked in replied. "But probably not as good as Morrigan, eh?" And as much as she seemed to try to make it sound _funny_ and _light_, underneath that was a sneering sharpness that cleaved at him as much as any blade.

Alistair didn't know what came over him then, only that it was black and ugly and _Maker where did it come from._ He grabbed Akana roughly by her shoulders, shoved her hard against the door frame where she was already leaning. It was hurt and anger, sure, but those things weren't anything all that new -- what surprised him was the drop of inky _hatred_ that bubbled up in the center of all of it. That had been an emotion reserved purely for the likes of Loghain, and recognizing it again, now, while he was digging his fingers into the arms of his love-

Akana seemed as surprised as he was, and her eyes went wide in alarm. Not fear, though. Maker, let that be some consolation. Alistair didn't know what he would have done with himself if she ever had reason to _fear_ him.

Cold sweat broke out all over his body, and he released her so quickly that she slumped. Or rather, dropped two inches. Oh Maker, he'd been holding her up off of her feet like some _thug_, like-

He stepped backwards, horrified at himself, needing to be away right now, hoping he'd wake up and it'd just be a nightmare.

"I-" Alistair stuttered, unsure what he would say, what he _could_ say. The only thing he could think of doing was begging for forgiveness and running away, maybe not in that order. But before he could start spewing apologies, Akana pushed off of the door frame. Her arms encircled around his neck and she stood on her toes, pressing her mouth over his, silencing his stammering. Her fingers wound tightly in his hair, which had grown out since Ostagar and was in need of a good crop, and she pulled him down to her.

He wasn't sure if this was supposed to mean that _she_ was sorry, or that she forgave him, or if it was just that she _understood_. But everything ran together, and they were inside the room now, crashing into and over furniture. He kicked the door shut, stumbled forward, and then they were on the floor. Akana effortlessly ripped his shirt from his chest like it was made of parchment and not well-spun silk, and he was on top of her, everything a tangle of limbs and fingers and hair and tongue.

They never did make it to the bed.

- - - - -

Alistair awoke with a crick in his neck and a piece of broken pottery cutting into his shoulder-blade. Both were tickles compared to dragon roaring and stomping around inside of his skull. He pushed himself to a sitting position, careful not to awaken Akana, who was turned on her side, facing away from him. Groaning quietly, he surveyed the damage. A painting hung askew on one wall, and another had fallen down completely. A pitched of water lie upside down on the floor, as well as a broken vase. The flowers that must have been in it were strewn about, their colorful heads shredded and torn; much like the destroyed articles of clothing that decorated the floor.

Both he and Akana were completely naked. Except that he was still wearing one boot. Killer hangover or no, that brought a smile to his face, and he had to hold in the laugh that tried to escape. He turned back to his love, still grinning like a fool, when what he saw froze the smile on his face.

Dark purple bruises in the shape of fingers had bloomed on her upper arms. His stomach lurched, and he found himself suddenly very nauseas. Being as tender as possible, he collected her up into his arms. She was very light -- too light, they'd all been missing meals by the end -- and barely stirred. He carried her to the bed, where the sheets they'd stained with their filthy armor had been replaced. Alistair tucked Akana in, and she smiled faintly, curling up like a warm kitten.

He watched her there for a while, knowing that he should lie beside her, be there when she awoke. But in his mind's eye all he could see were those horrible bruises. Of course they'd all suffered far worse injuries, but he would _never- _

But he had.

He should stay. He should stay and face her like a grown man.

Instead, Alistair dressed himself in a fresh pair of clothes -- the fact that there were shirts and pants tailored to his specifications in her room didn't surprise him -- and left. Yorick was lying outside, and Alistair allowed the Mabari to slip into the bedroom before he closed the door behind him.

_Coward. You're a coward. _

He closed his eyes and quickened his pace.


	8. Deals, Debts, and Devils: The Reaver

**A/N**: The first of another three-parter, this time from Akana's perspective. It takes the story through some points in the past, by way of the horribly contrived method of "It's a dream, guys!" Don't say I didn't warn you, I guess.

Next part gets into a scene that seems to be impossible to avoid if you're doing a post-game fic. You all the know the one, I'm sure.

In other news, to make up for the short break in posting, I did try my hand at a short, one-shot companion piece to this story. It's called "Dead Men Tell No Tales" and it's from the perspective of three of Dragon Age's, uh, dead dudes. If you're interested, check it out. It's relatively painless compared to reading all of THIS wordy stuff, that's for sure. ;)

* * *

**Akana**

_"No, no. No, see, this is a really shit idea. You know why? Because it's really obviously a shit idea."  
- Jim, 28 Days Later_

_

* * *

  
_

_Dreams, damn them. Akana knew she was dreaming, too, had enough sense to realize that. They weren't all tarnished sick-black like the one's sent from the Archdemon, but there was a muted quality to them, misty and frigid. She slipped further in, unable to rouse herself, now travelling at the mercy of her subconscious. _

"What comes?" Morrigan greeted her as Akana walked over to her secluded area of the camp. She motioned for Akana to sit, which was a small gesture of politeness and the only visible sign that Morrigan respected her. "Has Alistair's banal chatter finally gotten the better of you?"

Akana smiled, and shook her head, sitting on a rug across from Morrigan. The witch continued working with her mortar and pestle. "If I did not consider you a sane and healthy female specimen, I might conclude that you actually _liked_ his endless prattling," Morrigan said dryly, arching an eyebrow.

"It's not much different than Yorick's barking," Akana replied neutrally, knowing that the witch would find the comparison amusing. "You just tune it out after a while and let him tire himself out."

"Well, we could always just purchase a couple of _muzzles_ in the next town. One for each of them, yes?" The Warden laughed lightly, dropping her gaze to her lap. Morrigan eyed her closely, and then set her herbalism instruments aside, giving the leader her full attention. "But you did not come to me for idle conversation. Tell me, what is it you seek?"

Akana's brow furrowed for a moment. She knew that Morrigan would not wish her time wasted, so she did not want to mince her words. All the same, how to put this?

"It's about Kolgrim and the Cult," the Warden began.

Morrigan's eyes narrowed, but she nodded. "Yes, the man we slew after retrieving the Ashes. I must say, deceiving him into leading us to the Temple past all his guards worked better than I would have imagined. But what is there to speak of? The deed has been done, the man's bones will be picked clean by the whelpings he helped to raise. Or are you having second thoughts?"

Second thoughts would be a sign of weakness that Morrigan would not appreciate, and furthermore, that was not the case. Well, not really.

"No. However..." Akana reached into a small pack at her side, withdrawing a large glass bulb. The liquid inside was deep crimson. Morrigan's eyes lit up, her eyebrows raising.

"Do the others know that you still have this in your possession?" The witch's golden eyes never left the dragon's blood.

Searching for a diplomatic way to put it, and failing miserably, Akana shrugged. "They probably think I've gotten rid of it. I didn't disabuse them of the notion."

Morrigan smirked, meeting her gaze for the first time she she'd taken out the vial. "Quite manipulative of you. I'm impressed. After all, they'd likely just insist that your pour it out, as if it were nothing more than pondwater or spoiled ale." Now she leaned back, regarding the Grey Warden with those clever, calculating eyes. "But this still does not answer my question: why have you come to _me_ with this?"

"The cultist, Kolgrim, spoke of a warrior's knowledge that they gained through a ritual which included... imbibing the dragon's blood."

"Yes. I remember." Her features were practically ablaze now, an uncharacteristic excitement building. "Are you suggesting that you wish me to prepare the blood so that you may obtain this knowledge?" She asked the question skeptically: as if not believing that Akana would do such a thing.

Akana lifted half of her mouth into a wry smile. "I understand if it's not possible. I have no experience with what goes into these sorts of things. I figured that it couldn't possibly take all the blood, however, and that in return, you could keep whatever's left of it. I imagine dragon's blood is fairly hard to come by."

Morrigan didn't just smile, which was strange enough, but actually _laughed_. "My my, Warden. It would seem that I misjudged you. I never doubted that you were more practical and reasonable than your fellow, Alistair, but I had no idea just _how_ logical you might be! Though, women do tend to see more clearly when it comes to necessity, do they not?" Her grin fading, Morrigan's expression became more serious. "You _do_ realize that this is Blood Magic, though? Forbidden?" She couldn't quite say it with a straight face, the corner of her lips turning up into a disdainful smirk at the last word.

"I'm a warrior, Morrigan. All magic is magic, to me." And that _was_ the truth: Akana had heard all the tales about how some forms of magic were inherently more evil than others, but she didn't really buy it. "I grew up with a sword in each hand, and if that's taught me anything, it's that a blade is neither good nor evil. It's only a tool for the person using it."

Morrigan positively glowed, and Akana could feel the witch admiring her briefly, storing this away for later. "Well said, my surprisingly-sensible Warden. I will do this for you. However, I cannot guarantee anything. You must understand that to attempt to reconstruct the cultist's ritual will not be an exact science. Even if you do not object on moral grounds, I could not fault you for not wanting to take such a risk."

Akana nodded to show that she understood, and then smirked. "What good is it to have a black-hearted Apostate traveling with me if I don't make use of her evil powers?" Morrigan snickered in agreement. "Just let me know when it's finished. If I get cold feet between now and then, I'll be sure to let you know." Akana handed her the eerily warm vial, which she took carefully. "Thank you, Morrigan." The Warden stood, and moved to leave.

"Akana?"

Eyebrows arching, she half-turned to the witch. Morrigan didn't usually refer to her by name, and she wasn't sure why the woman would call her back. "Yes?"

"Is this... is this a secret?" The way she asked it made her sound almost like a child: it was easy to forget sometimes that she wasn't as attuned to social graces as most people were. Then again, other times it was impossible _not_ to notice. Now, however, Akana gave a slow nod.

"For now."

"Very well. I shall speak of it to no one. Sleep well, Warden."

"You too. Don't poison me."

Akana walked away to Morrigan's cackling, vaguely aware that for as much as Alistair hated the Witch of the Wilds, she actually liked her company.

"What was all that about?" Alistair asked when Akana returned to the main campfire.

"Just making deals with devils is all."

"Riiight. Anyway, Leliana is turning down her share of tonight's stew-surprise. You want it?"

"Let's split it."

"Even better!"

_Akana dreamed of what came after that: the potion Morrigan gave her some nights later, which went down __as if it were__ liquid flame. The pain that drove her unconscious, like something with claws and talons and scales was being born in her chest and dying all over again. _

_Waking up to Alistair having his sword drawn, shouting at the top of his lungs that he would kill Morrigan for poisoning their leader, demanding to know what was wrong, bellowing that he'd seen this coming all along. Morrigan, bracing herself to fling a spell to freeze him in his spot. Leliana standing between the two of them, insisting that there must be an explanation, telling everyone to calm down.__ Sten watching, unsure of the situation and unwilling to act until there was more certainty. Yorick's worried barks thundering across camp._

_And when Akana had roused__,__ Alistair had dropped his sword and knelt at her side without a word__. S__he saw Morrigan breathe a heavy sigh of relief. _

_She'd felt the difference immediately, that something inside of her had changed, forever, could never be put back the way it was. There was a dragon in her now, a __life__-drinker, a Reaver. Colors were more vivid, sounds clearer, smells more odorous, tastes more acute, touch both more painful and more pleasurable. _

_"Are you all right?" Alistair gently brushed his fingers over her face. It was one of the first tender touches he'd given her. She remembered it quite well. _

_"What happened?" Leliana asked. _

_"I told them nothing," Morrigan assured her. _

_And then, Akana had had to explain herself. It'd been a silent, uncomfortable night in camp after that. _

_But she left out that Morrigan still had some of the blood left, and the witch had seemed grateful enough for that, even if she couldn't be spared from her role in the whole thing. _

_Oh yes, Morrigan._

_Morrigan__, __Morrigan, Morrigan. _


	9. Deals, Debts, and Devils: The Offer

**A/N:** Like I mentioned before, I don't think it's possible to write a post-game fic (after choosing this option) without throwing a bone to the scene. There's just way too much to work with, honestly.

Thanks to everyone who is reading along with the story, whether you're reviewing/favoriting/alerting/lurking. This is getting to be one of the heftiest bits of narrative I've handled in quite some time!

* * *

**Akana**

_"No, no. No, see, this is a really shit idea. You know why? Because it's really obviously a shit idea."  
-Jim, 28 Days Later_

* * *

_The world spun: another dream, another time, something much later. _

"Do not be alarmed. It is only I." Morrigan stood in her room, arms crossed over her chest. Akana stared at the woman, unable to do anything else. The last few days had been hell, and the other shoe had just dropped. A Grey Warden would die tomorrow, and that was if they were _successful._ Morrigan turned to her, her back to the fireplace now. And, for a moment, Akana imagined that a look of concern passed over her face when she registered Akana's expression.

"Why are you in here." She couldn't even muster the energy to ask it as a question, and the words fell flat.

"I-" For a moment the witch paused, and this time Akana realized that she hadn't imagined the look of worry. Morrigan's fumbling with words tugged at emotions she'd thought had just been summarily executed by a rather bad bit of news.

"Are you all right, Morrigan?"

The look that Morrigan gave her was an odd one: as if touched by the consideration that Akana was showing her. Akana, however, saw nothing unusual in it. She cared about her companions. Why did they always seem so shocked? Still, she was under some... stress at the moment, and picking her way through a conversation with Morrigan was not something she was looking forward to.

"I am well," Morrigan answered, and then her lips went tight and thin, and she shook her head lightly. "No. I am worried." She sounded more than worried. She sounded even a touch _afraid,_ and Akana quietly closed the door behind her. The Warden had never known this mage to show fear, let alone admit to it. Akana put away her thoughts about the conversation with Riordan. If nothing else, this would be a break from thinking about the impending doom lingering over the last tiny handful of Wardens in Ferelden.

"Please," Akana gestured towards the bed. "Sit."

Again Morrigan gave her that strangely frantic look, an expression of intense displeasure that Akana was at least certain wasn't directed at _her_ (the witch would have no trouble telling her if it was). "I believe it would be better for us to stand, Warden. What I have to propose is a thing that one should consider from one's feet, for it is concerning the battle tomorrow, and one does not fight from a chair."

"As you will. Speak."

"You are in danger, Lady." _Lady_, Akana thought to herself. Morrigan called her this when she wished to address her as a leader -- for the others it was more about affection, but for the witch it seemed to be a honorable title. Despite this, Akana found herself smirking at the news, even though Morrigan's tone was unnaturally filled with concern. "Do not snicker so," Morrigan snapped at her, waspish. "It is an awful habit you've picked up from Alistair, trying to find irony in everything, and it is very _distracting._"

At first Akana felt the intense desire to prod at the witch, perhaps insinuate at the other bad habits she'd learned from her fellow Warden (and now lover), but those thoughts led back to what would come tomorrow, and then Akana felt no humor in it after that.

"I meant no offense, Morrigan," Akana replied, exhausted in every way a body and mind could be. There was sincerity in her tone, at least, and the witch seemed to relax a little. "But I have lived all of my life in some danger or another, and I've just learned that it's only about to get worse. I know that you wouldn't be here if it wasn't important. Please say what you've come to say."

"You... did not know about the sacrifice?" Morrigan's gaze was exceptionally, unbelievably compassionate. Though the fact that Morrigan apparently knew more about Warden tradition than Akana did was interesting, that soft expression was much more so. She didn't bother with asking how Morrigan knew: if she asked that every time the witch enlightened her about a foreign subject, she'd never had gotten anything done.

"No," Akana answered bluntly. "Neither did Alistair."

"I see."

_No, you don't_, Akana wanted to snarl. Morrigan couldn't begin to understand what existed between her and the Templar, none of them could, and tomorrow it was probably coming to an end. Cynical or not, Akana could not place any faith in this Riordan. If destiny would choose to make the sacrifice so simple, well, then it wouldn't be a sacrifice. Besides, she'd had to rescue Riordan from Loghain's prison. A man that could be captured and held in prison was not a man she believed would be able to single-handedly kill an Archdemon. Akana did not plan to share this cheery thought with Alistair.

"What do you _want_ Morrigan."

"Yes, of course." Morrigan broke eye contact for a moment, and then resettled her cat's gaze back on Akana. "You wisely asked me for assistance once before. I wish to offer my help in this matter. No Grey Warden need die in tomorrow's battle."

Immediately, she had Akana's attention. Akana's face hardened: if it seemed too good to be true...

"What are you talking about?"

And then, Morrigan had explained it all.

"Blood Magic."

"You did not have a problem with such magics before, when-"

"Not me. Alistair will never. I cannot _ask_ him to do this."

"You would let such a trifle as sex with me come between your lives?" Morrigan asked pointedly, though Akana could tell that the witch knew that wasn't what she meant.

"Don't treat me like I'm stupid. A child and the soul of an Old God is not a trifle, Morrigan." Akana rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palms, her head pounding. It was too much information. The decisions only seemed to become more and more difficult as the final hour drew nigh. Who in their right mind had made her leader?

"No, I suppose that you are correct. If they were, I would not be here." She heard Morrigan step towards her. Then, surprising her, the witch placed a hand on her shoulder. Akana lifted her hands from her face, staring at the taller, darker woman. "You have been a good leader, Lady. Perhaps you cater too much to the whims of weaker individuals," Morrigan's mouth tightened, and Akana knew that she meant Wynne, and Leliana, and Alistair. "But it is clear that you have always done what you must to survive, and ensure the survival of your companions. It is also clear that, though I still cannot understand why, you care very dearly for Alistair. I do not bother to ask if you would choose to lose him: I know already that you would not. But would you condemn him to such a fate that you yourself reject?"

Akana eyed Morrigan, both hating and loving the woman for offering her an escape route. An easy out. Morrigan was manipulating her, even if the witch also believed in what she was saying – and manipulation or not, that didn't stop it from working.

"If you cannot ask him to lie with me, then merely tell him of my offer, Lady. He is a fool, but he loves you. I am loathe to leave such an important decision up to him, but if he will not see reason, he _will_ see you. Would you refuse him the power to make that choice, simply because you _suspect_ that he will deny me?" Akana closed her eyes, worn and so, so tired. "Please," Morrigan asked, genuinely pleading. "You have protected me where you could, and you have been a caring friend. Neither have been easy feats. _Let me spare you from this__ needless death__._"

Akana felt her will bend and bend and bend and then finally break. She looked back into Morrigan's eyes, grey meeting gold, and nodded. "I will tell him. But," she said, tongue feeling thick and unwieldy in her mouth. "I cannot agree that I will never track you, Morrigan."

Morrigan frowned at this. "Would you not let me leave in peace, then?"

Akana stared back. "I don't know whether the world will still be here a day from now, let alone what it will look like. I _will_ find you again, after all of this. Whether to thank you or hunt you, I cannot say. But that I can promise: _I will find you._"

Morrigan considered this, and Akana thought she knew at least part of what the witch was thinking: it would be her wit against the Warden's, and it was obvious who was the winner in that arena. Besides, she knew the Wilds in a way that no Alienage-born elf could so claim.

"So be it. Go to Alistair." Akana turned, heading for the door. "Would that _you_ were male, my Lady. It would have made this quite a deal easier." The Warden, already knowing that she was walking into some fresh kind of agony, didn't reply.

So Akana had gone to him. It was even more horrible than she'd been expecting, him looking at her in a way he never had before: like she might be _dangerous_ -- and not just with a sword.

"Damn you, why can't you just let Riordan strike the blow? It's his time," Alistair had argued, or rather (though it pained her to admit it), whined. "It's not just the sex, which is bad enough, but Akana, think about this! You have no idea what will come of this! Don't ask me to do this!"

And she had replied, softly, unable to meet his eyes: "I'm not asking you to do anything, Alistair. She bade me that I not choose for you, since I refused her on your behalf. I am not telling you this as your leader, and Maker forbid you think I'm ordering you to do it. I'm telling you because if we don't do this, one of us is going to die tomorrow." But it'd been obvious what she was _really _saying: _I will die. I will die because I c__an__ not allow you to sacrifice yourself._ Even still, she could not find it in her heart to blame yet.

"What of Riordan? Have a little faith, Akana-"

"All right," she cut him off abruptly. "I don't want to argue with you, Alistair. Gods, I can't. Not tonight. Not when..." She kneaded her temples with her knuckles. "I'll go tell Morrigan." Akana stood, but before she could move away, his hand had closed around her wrist. She looked back, alarmed. What she saw now was not indignant haughtiness, but something sterner.

"Swear to me that it will be me. That when it comes, that if Riordan fails, you'll let me do it."

Akana had to resist the sudden, impossible urge to laugh in his face. "I would sooner invite the Archdemon over for tea, Alistair."

His grip tightened, painful now, and she frowned. "Swear it," he'd growled.

"No." Akana, stronger than he was, jerked her arm from his grasp.

Alistair stood instantly, nearly a foot taller than her, his hands balled into fists. "I mean it, Akana, I'm not joking. It should be me."

She glared up at him, unimpressed by his defensive pose, and hardly about to be bullied. It was the final straw: she'd been pressured on too many sides, and now, from the person who she needed understanding from the most, she was getting another heap bullshit.

"You think this is how it works? You think you get to dump leadership on the gods-damned recruit -- when I was greener than a fuckin' _sapling_ -- at the first opportunity you have, but now, now that we've finally made it to the end, that goes out the window? That because something you aren't going to like is going to happen, you suddenly get to call the shots? That's _not_ how this works. I kill the Archdemon tomorrow. YOU stay and rebuild the Wardens. That's an order. And don't you _dare_ disobey me when the time comes."

He held for a moment, but then the spine seemed to go out of him, and Alistair slumped. "No," he moaned quietly, "No, that's not what I did. I would never..." But he wasn't trying to convince her, and tears pooled in his eyes when he realized that that was _exactly_ what he'd done. "Akana, please-"

"Get bent, Templar." She snarled, and turned on her heel, storming towards the door. The more she thought of it, the more angry it made her, and being in love with him only made it all that much worse.

"Wait!" Her hand gripped the doorknob. All it would take was a a handful of seconds and she could be away, far from this, somewhere where she could kick and scream and mourn for the all the life she was going to be throwing away tomorrow, because of him_. _If it weren't for him, she wouldn't care. _He'd_ given her a reason to give a damn about it all. And now _he could save her_ and he _wouldn't. _

But she halted. She didn't turn back around, but she didn't leave, either.

"If," he started, and then swallowed hard. "If I do it, do this, will- will things change? Between us?"

And then she couldn't help it, didn't have the power left to stop it. Akana snickered. Which turned into a giggle. Which turned into a laugh. Which soon overcame her, racking her body, and she leaned forward, pressing her forehead to the cool wood of the door to support herself. It wasn't a friendly laugh, and Alistair went silent behind her.

Finally, when she had control of herself again, she shook her head lightly, still leaning on the door. "I don't know, Alistair. I don't know. But I can tell you one thing," she sneered, "things are sure gonna change if you _don't._"

Maybe it wasn't fair, but Maker strike her down if it wasn't _true_. And then she realized just how close to actual tears she was, and that was a rare and horrible feeling. She knew she'd do anything to save him. She wouldn't question it. Wouldn't hesitate.

But he didn't feel the same way. How could she reconcile with that knowledge? Was it a matter a love, or a matter of principle? Did any of that make a difference?

Alistair made a noise that was halfway between a choke and a whimper. Akana opened the door.

"I'll do it. Tell Morrigan... Maker, tell Morrigan that I guess I'll be over there in a few minutes. I need to throw up first though, or I'll end up doing it in the middle of... just tell her." Akana felt something like relief and self-loathing and dread swirl in her gut, and she didn't look back as she left the room.


	10. Deals, Debts, and Devils: The Wait

**A/N:** The last section of "Deals, Debts, and Devils." Bit more Akana/Zevran development. I'm sure everyone's tired enough of the dream scenes for now, anyway. I'll wait a little while before inflicting more. ;)

Up next will be the first chapter from Leliana's perspective. It's another lengthy one, and will probably have to be cut up into at least two chunks before it's palatable.

By the way: if there is any kind of scene in particular anyone WANTS to see, send me a message or let me know in a review. It doesn't mean it'll definitely happen -- or that if it does, that it'll be particularly soon in the storyline -- but I figure I should throw anyone willing to read this far in some sort of bone, right? Also, if you take the time to make a review and would like me to read over your DA:O fic, I will gladly return the gesture and toss you a review. Just lemme know anything in particular you'd like me to look at!

* * *

**Akana**

_"No, no. No, see, this is a really shit idea. You know why? Because it's really obviously a shit idea."  
- Jim, 28 Days Later_

_

* * *

  
_

_Akana came close to consciousness, almost waking, the dreams __slipping__ back. But they weren't really dreams, were they? They were memories. It didn't feel like she was the one sorting through them either__; __like another being was turning pages, reading her mind like a book. It blame her for her actions, though -- simply felt what she felt.__ If anything, she had to pity It: she wouldn't wish that anguish on very many people (though she would lie and claim to be above wishing it on her enemies)._

_But then she was more comfortable__,__ warmer too, and sleep washed up around her__ once more__, __pulling__ her back. _

The wind was chill on her face, but Akana still felt like she was being burned alive by flames that lay underneath her skin and boiled her blood. The Warden leaned her elbows against the stone railing of the balcony. It'd been something like half an hour since she'd left Alistair. She wondered if he'd gone to Morrigan yet.

The pine trees below gave off a foresty, inviting scent. Then again, anywhere seemed more inviting then where she was now, literally and metaphorically. She sighed, the lonely sound carried away on the night's breeze.

A footstep behind her: Akana looked quickly over her shoulder. Zevran stood in the archway. He could have easily passed without her noticing; even the small sound of his arrival had been a courtesy towards her, announcing his presence. It was the Assassin's politer, subtler way of clearing his throat.

"My Lady?" His voice was tentative, seeming almost apologetic at having found her in such an unguarded state. Even Yorick was nowhere to be found -- Akana had told him to go keep an eye on Oghren (an activity the Mabari loved), because sometimes the dog just reminded her too much of Alistair. "Am I troubling you?"

_Ever gracious, for a backstabber,_ Akana thought, but there was no real anger in it. Besides, she'd come to learn that it was the same quality that _made_ Zevran so good at his craft. He was ever observant of what people were thinking and feeling: not unlike Wynne, really, though the Healer would have despised the comparison.

"No," Akana answered, more than a bit untruthfully. She did not often get the chance to sulk. Everyone seemed to think that she was too uncomplicated to feel the weight of the burden upon her back. They'd assumed that because she did her best not to show how deeply she was affected, that she _wasn't_ affected, possessed of too thick a skin and too narrowly-focused a mind to take time to _feel_ it all.

She'd let them believe it, because it made things easier, especially at first. It was an idea they could rally behind, especially when Alistair made it clear that he would not lead, and everyone was always at each other's throats. Until, of course, she realized what it meant: she couldn't let the act down now, could never let show the fractures slowly eroding her foundation of resolve. Akana's companions had trapped her in her role as the somewhat reckless warrior who, once she had sunk her teeth into something, never, _ever_ let go. And she was just as culpable: she'd let them do it, after all.

Not that there wasn't truth in it. Of course there was -- otherwise it would not have been so perfectly damning, so utterly without escape. She'd believed it herself.

"Ah, but I see that I am." Still, he did not go, and Akana glanced over at him. He wasn't in his armor, the supple leather that he wore into combat. Nor could she see any weapons on him, though that hardly meant anything. She could see him struggling with himself: fighting the urge to excuse himself gracefully. But why? Akana had no doubt that Zevran cared about her, in his way. It went further even than the constant offers of massages and other manners of sensual delights. Still, he did not tend to involve himself in the emotional messes of others. The Warden continued to stare at him in a way that she supposed was probably unnerving, but she didn't really care enough to lessen its intensity. "My Lady, if you do not mind my asking-"

"I do mind, Zevran." Bluntness was a trait she was known for: iciness was not.

"Well, then I truly _must_ insist on asking." He walked towards her, and she reluctantly turned her body to face him, now leaning her back against the railing. She contemplated whether or not it would take more energy to let him stay and answer his questions, or convince him to bugger off. For now, she'd try the path of least resistance. "What are you doing here?'

"Gathering troops to march to Denerim," she responded dully, knowing that he was looking for more of an answer than that.

Zevran was not deterred. He did, however, change tactics. "Why are you alone?" His brow furrowed and his mouth pulled into a frown.

"What do you mean?"

"Akana..." He said her name softly, _lovingly,_ like a close friend might. Her heart jumped into her throat, her eyes prickling with shame and heartache, and she looked at the balcony floor. Zevran took another stride towards her, but stopped while he was still out of reach. She wasn't sure if it was for his benefit or hers. "There is a rumor passing along the lower halls that a Grey Warden must sacrifice his or her life in order to slay the Archdemon."

She didn't answer him, just went right on staring at the ground.

"Then it is true," Zevran said quietly, melancholy. "I'm so sorry, my-"

"Zevran." She did not look up.

He immediately stopped. "Yes?"

"The woman you loved. What would you give, to take back what you'd done? To save her?" It was wrong for her to ask, wrong and _selfish_ and totally uncalled for and it didn't really fit the situation-

"Anything," Zevran replied. "My still beating heart. The still beating hearts' of countless innocents. Perhaps now things have changed, but I cannot think of a price I would not have paid in the time that I lived as a ghost -- up until I began my travels with you and your company. And even still there are many, many terrible things I would do if it meant righting that wrong." Akana could feel his eyes on her, and refused to meet them. He stepped closer still, approaching her like she was a skittish animal, liable to flee. "Where is Alistair?"

She willed herself not to move, not flinch, but she _did_ and gods-_damn_ Zevran's sharp eyes.

"This is... foolish," Zevran said, tone taking on a sour note, and that did make her look up. Was the Assassin about to scold her? She could expect such from Wynne, or Morrigan, or Sten, in less words- but him? Never. He never judged her. "Whatever you two are arguing over, it's not worth this. You have no idea what you stand to lose. You should be together, tonight especially."

"What makes you think we're arguing?"

"Because if you weren't, you'd be quartered away somewhere making love like the world was ending tomorrow, which for one of you it will."

Akana closed her eyes, tried not to think of what must be happening as they spoke. Tried not to think of the terms she and Alistair had parted on before it. Tried.

"It's more than that, Zevran."

"I'm sure it seems that way now, my Lady, but-"

Akana turned on him, and reaching out lightning quick. He might have dodged otherwise, but he was surprised, and she was able to grab two fistfuls of his shirt. She dragged him to her, his eyes wide in shock, and-

And realized she had no idea what this had accomplished.

But her pulse was thundering in her ears and all she could hear was his voice. _Anything,_ he'd said. He'd do _anything._ She stared at his eyes and the scar on the side of his face that lay just under his tattoo and his mouth, his lips, his teeth...

_It hurt so bad, everything hurt so bad, and anything-anything-anything to make the pain stop- _

Akana let him go.

It took him a moment to regain function over his voice, and in that time she'd turned away from him again, looking back out at the forest. "I thought for a second that you were going to toss me from the balcony."

"Me too." Both of them were lying, and it was pretty obvious what they'd really thought she was going to do.

"You asked me if I'd save the woman I loved, had I the chance."

"Go away."

"Why did you ask me that, Akana?"

"Go away."

"This isn't just about you two being noble over who slays the Archdemon, is it?"

"Go away."

"What won't Alistair do?" Now he didn't just sound inquisitive, he sounded angry. Furious, even, in his own steel-cold way. She moved to roughly push him away, but it was sloppy and he evaded it so smoothly that he might as well have been shifting his weight. "Would he not kill the demon for you? No, but certainly he would -- not that you'd ever let him, of course. So what is it?"

Akana didn't answer him, chose silence. It was a last resort, but they both knew that he couldn't pry anything out of her that she wasn't willing to give up.

"Perhaps I'll have a chat with our Most Honorable Templar myself, then." And Akana knew that he was probably at least half bluffing, tugging at her strings, but she couldn't be sure. So when he moved to leave she finally growled a real response.

"He's doing it."

"Doing what?"

"Saving me."

"Explain."

_Maker,_ Akana groaned inwardly. _When did I stop being their leader, above reproach or question? _

Probably around the same time that everyone realized she was going to dead this time tomorrow.

"I can't."

"Maybe Alistair can."

"Please," Akana begged, and her voice cracked. "Please. Just trust me. I can't- I can't hold us all together any more than I _am_-" And there it was, the gasping, croaking sound that she hadn't heard come from her own mouth since her mother died. She dug her shortly cropped fingernails into the flesh of her forehead, covering her eyes with her palms, not caring when she drew blood. She would not cry. Would not. Forced herself not to. "If you don't want me to be alone tonight then just _stay_, Maker damn you, Maker damn you _all_."

Akana shook with the power it took to hold in the sob that was battling so hard to be free. If she let it out, though, it would never end, and gods, what a fool she'd be, crying here in front of Zevran like a stupid little _girl. _

She could see him in her mind: perfectly poised and taut, like a cat that'd spotted something startling. But then she heard the whisper of fabric, and he cursed lightly under his breath -- at himself -- and moved towards her. "I apologize, my Lady. I had no right."

_I don't care,_ she wanted to say, or _It doesn't matter,_ or _Don't worry about it._ Instead she just shook her head, not trusting herself to speak, still swallowing down every bit of despair so that none of it could leak out and shame her further. He cursed again, letting the wind take this one. "You are the best of us, Lady."

And this comment surprised her so much that, heavens fall from the sky, she laughed. Well, it was more of a disgruntled snort, but it was there. Zevran seemed to recognize his chance, and took it.

"What?" He asked, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"...the best of the present _company_, maybe..." Her words were still thick, but they were no longer on the edge of hysteria. Slowly, she moved her hands down, until they were grasping the railing. Of course she held on so tightly that her knuckles went pale (and a part of the stone even cracked and crumbled under her grip), but it was better than trying to push her fingers into her own skull.

"Of that we could have no doubt. But truly: everyone underestimates you. At first I wondered if it was _me_ who was blind-"

"-no you didn't," she interjected, smirking.

"-you're entirely correct, that is a lie. I thought everyone else was crazy from the beginning." He half-leaned against the railing, his body turned towards her though he mostly stared out at the dark horizon, following her gaze. "They see in you what they wish to see: a savior, a friend, a comrade, a General. It is the witch, perhaps, whose vision is least clouded. Even so, she sees a tool above all, and it distresses her to know that you are more, even to her."

Akana did not want to talk about Morrigan.

"And you?" Damn the neediness in her voice: she hadn't meant to sound so fragile, so weak. "What do you see?" Akana added, trying to steel her voice, throw in a defiant smirk, but it failed, and miserably. She still didn't face him.

Zevran looked back towards her. Gently, the tips of his fingers moving as lightly and airily as eyelashes, he dabbed at the blood she'd drawn from her temples. Akana wasn't sure how to interpret the small act of kindness, and just stood there stoicly. _Like a dumb animal,_ she chided herself, but there were plenty of worse (and truer) things that she could be called.

"Shall I spare you the usual, then? That you are beautiful, fierce, irresistible?" He smirked, and pulled his hand away, rubbing his fingers against his thumb until the drops of blood he'd collected were little more than faint stains on his skin. "The truth is that you are all these things they see in you, but you are also more than the sum of those parts. They take it for granted that you are the one leading them against this Blight. Which isn't to say they take _you_ for granted, necessarily: they would each die for you, and I do no disinclude myself in this."

Zevran sighed quietly, as if searching for more proper words. Akana listened, feeling a stillness settle inside of her that is almost like tranquility, or as close as one could reasonably get, given the circumstances. "Forgive me the unforgivable in this understatement, my Lady, but they forget that what you are doing -- routing the Blight -- is _hard._ That it wears on you more than it could ever wear on them, save maybe for Alistair." She flashed him a skeptical look. Zevran lifted his hands as if to ward off an attack, _don't shoot the messenger!_ "I didn't say it wasn't absurd."

"You're saying that I just make it look easy, is all," Akana replied dryly. Zevran smiled at her, all charm and unexpected understanding.

"You'll not pull me down into the mire of humor, where the point I'm making is lost in jests. Not so easily, not tonight. Though yes, you do make it look almost effortless -- so much so that your companions assume that you are guided but nothing other than some incorruptible destiny, making it simply not _possible_ for you to fail."

"You don't believe in fate? I thought you were a poet."

Zevran's eyebrows raised, as if surprised that she remembered. "Perhaps I do. But I've also seen the choices you've had to make. I do not allow myself to forget that you prevail because you are clever and strong, not because some Higher Power is leading you by the hand. I've seen the signs -- small signs, my Lady, but they are there -- that you are not as above it all as everyone seems to think."

Akana arched an eyebrow. "Signs of weakness, then."

"No!" The sudden force in his voice caught her off guard. He recalculated, lowered his tone, but the sense of urgency was still there. "Not weakness. Just reminders that you are _mortal_, Akana. You are not some marching statue, already bled dry of your life but still plodding on because you must. You are a loving, breathing, passionate woman set against an impossible task. And you are _succeeding._"

"We'll see about that," Akana said low under her breath, but it was a sorry attempt to cover up just how grateful she was to hear the words. She'd thought that no one noticed, but maybe she'd been wrong. It seemed a shame that she'd only just realized that she'd had someone who saw past the mask of bravado all along; now, when it was probably too late to do any good.

"Only a madman could doubt you, having seen what I've seen."

"Only a madman would follow me, having seen what you've seen."

Zevran inclined his head in the barest of nods, as if ceding the point. Akana knew he was being accommodating: she'd argue him into the dirt if he let her, and he would not let the conversation devolve into that.

The wind picked up then, slipping through hair and clothing alike. She welcomed its refreshing bite, but it also made the loneliness inside of her keen terribly for the familiar warmth of her fellow Grey Warden. Using Zevran as a substitute, on any level, would damn her in more ways than one... even if she knew that he'd do so readily, discreetly, and what was more, _adeptly._

Akana closed her eyes. It wasn't fair that things only got _harder_ just before the end. At this point everything should have been set, finite, not drowned in moral ambiguity. "Do or die" she could handle, or even "do and die" as the case might be. "Convince your lover to sleep with a woman he doesn't trust in order to conceive a child who will become a vessel for an Archdemon's soul, or die" was a little different.

His hand passed over one of hers, hesitant and cautious, hovering more than actually making contact. She turned her palm up, giving him back a tiny squeeze, before allowing herself to hold his hand. It felt different than Alistair's: the temperature slightly cooler, the skin softer, the fingers narrower. There were callouses, but they were in different places. Idly, Zevran caressed the back of her knuckles with his thumb.

This seemed friendly, not at all devious or sexual, but _what would Alistair think_ was practically a mantra to her now, and she couldn't say she liked the idea of him seeing it. The irony of being worried about holding Zevran's hand while Alistair was, well, doing whatever he was doing with Morrigan, was not lost on her.

Rather than trying to analyze it, rather than wasting what might be the last hours of her life fretting over something so trivial, Akana just accepted it. If some god wanted to strike her down for it, all she could hope was that he had the sense to do it _after_ this Archdemon business was through.

Without words, and with only that slight physical connection, they shared a piece of the night: everything changing from bitter to bittersweet.

_A distant rapping sound jarred the images, and suddenly rather than seeing a forest it was like she was looking at the reflection of one in a pool of vibrating water. Akana rolled over, felt herself coming awake, and reached out for Alistair. The dream still lingered enough that maybe, maybe holding him now could make it better somehow, like going back in time and having him there then._

_But instead of brushing the well-known planes of his body, a shoulder or the stretch of his back, she felt something else entirely. Warm, short fur, large: Yorick snuffled happily at her face. Akana pet him for a moment, but looked around for Alistair. He was nowhere to be found, and the room was in such disarray that it might as well have been robbed and ransacked. _

_The knock at the door came again, followed by Leliana's voice: "Akana? Alistair?" _

_Akana meant to tell her to come back later, but all that came out was a pained groan as the delayed sensation of a particularly _awful_ hangover hit her. _

"_Are you decent?" Leliana's voice came._

"_No," Akana half-shouted, flopping back to the bed. "Not decent at all. I'm going to need at least another week of sleep until-"_

_The Bard invited herself in._


	11. You Are Invited: Hungover

**A/N: **Chapter will be a two-parter. More to come tomorrow, probably in the evening. =)

* * *

**Leliana**

_**Jet Black:** So what kind of woman is she? What's Julia like?  
__**Faye Valentine:** Ordinary. The kind of beautiful, dangerous ordinary that you just can't leave alone.  
__**Jet Black:** I see.  
__**Faye Valentine:** Like an angel from the underworld. Or a devil from Paradise.  
- Cowboy Bebop_

_

* * *

_

"Call it a hunch, but I bet that door was_ locked_ and that you haven't exactly got the _key_ for it."

"Good morning to you too, Akana," Leliana smiled as she let herself in. She was balancing a small platter against her hip: on it were a couple meaty pastries, and a kettle of scorching hot tea. Shutting the door behind her, she turned around nearly dropped the whole thing. "Maker's Breath, are you all right?!"

It looked like the scene of a crime: everything all overturned and broken. Leliana didn't even spot Akana until the lump under the bed-sheets moaned pitifully. Yorick lay next to his master, however, and wagged his tail happily at the sight of her (or, more likely, the sight of the food). Alistair, apparently, was out.

"No," Akana groaned. "I'm not. I'm terribly ill. Don't come near me, it's probably contagious."

Slowly Leliana realized that the Warden was in no danger, and that the state of the room likely had to do with a night of passion. That, and Akana was actually _whining_, quite effectively too, and that she'd never heard it from her before. Leliana giggled: the fact that the Lady was complaining was a good sign. Of course the headache probably _was_ something awful, but Akana had suffered through worse without so much as a grimace, and it was nice to know that they were now safe enough that it was okay to wallow in the simple misery of a hangover.

"Don't laugh. I'll sic Yorick on you."

Yorick cocked his head to the side, but seemed no more ready to climb out of the bed than his master was.

"Well, I will say this." Leliana picked her away across the room, careful not to step on bits of broken pottery. "It looks like you certainly earned your headache, for what it's worth." Akana didn't answer her verbally, but she did pull a pillow roughly over her head. "I brought you some tea, and a bit of breakfast."

And this, despite Akana's show of immense pain, did get a different reaction. The elf woman pulled down the corner of the down-filled quilt that covered her, enough that a single slate colored eye peered out. "You didn't have to do that," she mumbled, voice muffled. "I think I'd rather fall into a shallow grave and _die_ than eat anything right now, but thank you."

_This is why it's so easy to _want_ to do nice things for her,_ Leliana smiled to herself. _She's always so appreciative of even the smallest gesture._

Leliana set the tray down on one of the bed tables, and crawled onto the bed on the opposite side of Akana. Yorick obliging moved over, nestled between them. "You can have one of the meat-pies," Leliana told him, and Yorick's massive head immediately rose. "But you may not eat it on the bed."

Yorick barked his agreement, and Akana hissed and spat like a prodded drake. "YORICK!" She shouted. "No barking right now! I'm kicking you out if you bark!" The Mabari gave a low whine, scolded, and the Warden sighed from under the covers. She snaked a hand out, patting the hound on the head and scratching him behind the ears. "Sorry," she apologized, and Leliana watched as Yorick shoved his snout into the small opening of the sheets, licking the woman's face. "But my head is killing me and you barking is like a goddamn golem smashing boulders in my skull." Yorick replied with a very soft bark, no louder than a moderate growl. "Good boy. Eat your breakfast. And thank Leliana."

"What?" Leliana asked, but before she could even get the word out, the Mabari had blessed the side of her face with a long, slobbering lick, and then hopped off of the bed. "Euck!" She wiped at it, and could swear she heard the Warden laughing from under her pillow. Still, the Bard handed the Mabari one of the pastries, and for all the crushing power of those jaws, he took it from her gently and neatly. Turning back to Akana, she reclined on her side, propping herself up on one elbow. As destroyed as the rest of the room was, this side of the bed seemed barely touched, except for the slight shifting of the covers where Yorick had been lying.

"The tea I brought should help with the hangover," Leliana offered, smiling at the bundle that was her friend.

"Thank you," Akana replied, as if incapable of responding impolitely to a show of friendship, even in jest.

"Where's Alistair? Surely he helped create some of this mess last night. Though, from the look of it, it's hard to think that only two people could wreak such havoc…" And though Leliana knew that Akana had an almost indestructible sense of humor, and rarely took offense to racier jokes, the Bard could have sworn that the woman went suddenly still under all of those sheets and quilts.

"Just two. You know what happened _last_ time I tried to get Alistair into a threesome." Indeed, Akana responded less quickly than seemed usual, and less confidently as well. But perhaps that was due to the headache that was apparently crippling her.

"Yes," Leliana laughed. "I told him he should be open to new experiences, but that didn't really sway him, did it? Zevran was absolutely _appalled._"

"Oh please," Akana snickered. "So were you."

"Who, me? Never, my Lady. It just seems that there must be something odd about any man who would deny such an offer, let alone with two women. Though I suppose it is also quite sweet, in its own way."

"That's Alistair all right. Odd and sweet. Sweet and odd. Sweetly odd. Oddly sweet? Pray to the Maker for me, Leliana, I think _I'm dying of a headache._"

"Oh? Should I go get Wynne, then?" The Bard grinned, even if Akana didn't see it: the idea of witnessing Wynne's expression when she walked in and saw the state of the room was more than a little tempting.

"No! Don't joke like that! I thought you were my friend!"

"I am your friend, dear Lady. And if you are truly breathing your last as we speak-"

The Warden rustled, and for the first time since she'd entered, Leliana was able to see Akana's entire head as it poked out from the nest of blankets. Her short, bright hair was rather prettily tussled, looking very soft in the dim light. Akana narrowed her eyes at Leliana, blinking as if they were in strong sunlight, even with the curtains drawn. "Suddenly I feel so much _better_, no need to get Wynne. And all thanks to _you_ Leliana. How can I ever repay you?"

"Oh, I was _hoping_ you'd ask!" Leliana reached into a pocket, and Akana cursed vulgarly under her breath – something so vile it had to have come from their time spent in Orzammar. The Bard produced a piece of parchment. "You have one as well, it's in a flower bouquet outside your door."

"What is it?"

"An invitation!" Leliana watched the creeping suspicion spread on Akana's face.

"…well what _for,_" the Warden finally asked. "And what does it have to do with me repaying you for this wonderful wake-up?"

"Queen Anora is hosting a Ball later-"

"No."

"_Akana-_" Leliana pleaded, having expected this reaction.

"Nope. No way. Not happening. I didn't kill a goddamn Archdemon to be subjected to… to _synchronized dancing._"

"Oh, it's not that terrible Akana, it's actually very nice, and it'll be a good change of pace from all the fighting."

"I _like_ fighting. Why would I want that to change?"

Leliana sighed and rolled her eyes, though she wasn't really exasperated. Not yet – she was in this to win, and both of them knew that Akana was objecting out of principle right now. The Bard was mostly sure that she could convince her friend to attend, and that all of this refusing was just so that later Akana could claim that she'd _tried_ to get out of it.

"Well, dancing is actually quite a bit like fighting. It takes skill, and precision, and-"

"-and this is why you stand in the _back_ and _shoot arrows_," Akana interjected. "Besides, it's for Anora? Already throwing herself parties, then?" This, Leliana realized, was a _real_ point of contention. After the Queen's blunder at the Feast last night, it was hard to blame the Warden for not exactly singing the new ruler's praises.

"So it would seem," Leliana answered diplomatically. "And I know that you have good reason to be upset with her, but the Queen has… also been through much, Akana." This argument did little more than bring a faint scowl to the Warden's face. "She did not ask for her father to turn out to be a traitor, let alone for his betrayal to cost her a husband and throw the kingdom into turmoil. These things do not excuse her actions," Leliana quickly added, seeing the storm building in the elf woman's eyes, "but she will learn. Just as I learned, remember?"

At this, the Warden did seem to soften. Not for Anora's sake, of course, but Leliana took it as a positive sign nonetheless. "She'd better," Akana murmured darkly, and though the Bard _knew_ that Akana would _never_ jeopardize the stability of the country she had saved, a shiver still passed down her spine and made all the tiny hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. Leliana knew first-hand that the Warden could give a good scolding, but her bite was so, so much worse than her bark.

"She will," Leliana said, trying to get past that tempestuous look in Akana's gaze. "And now you have this perfect opportunity to help _teach_ her-" Akana groaned loudly. "-and all you have to do is make an appearance and show that you care."

"But I _don't_ care," Akana whined.

"So I've gathered," Leliana replied, and then pouted in mock sympathy. "Life is very hard, my Lady."

"Don't you patronize me. You might not have heard, but I've killed an Archdemon. Very hard to do."

"Of course," Leliana smiled.

"You know, if _Alistair_ were King, he'd never make me do this."

"That is true, Akana. Do you think the nobles will let you take your decision back if you explain the situation to them?"

"Probably not. They're kind of tight-arsed about that stuff." She huffed a great sigh, sinking into her pillows and blankets for a moment. Then her eyes suddenly opened, and she lifted her head, extending a hand from her cocoon. "Let me see that thing."

Leliana's eyebrows raised: this unanticipated spike in interest made her more than a little wary, but she handed the invitation to Akana anyway. There was a blatant eagerness in the Warden's eyes that certainly hadn't been there moments before. She scowled in concentration as she read over the embossed lettering.

"Masquerade?" Akana asked, eyes darting to Leliana's face. It took the Bard a second or two to realize that it wasn't a hypothetical question. Why had she assumed that Akana would know what that was? _She _might be well-versed in the intrigues of glamorous Court-life, but it was foolish to think that Akana was as well. The Warden had been afforded very little finery over the course of her life, as far as Leliana knew.

"It means that you must wear a mask to attend. Everyone still dresses in their finest attire, but they also don these _gorgeous_ eye-masks, with beads and sequins and feathers-" Akana gave her a look of pure alarm, and then stared back at the parchment, as if one small word could hardly convey such ridiculousness. "The idea is that no one knows who anyone else is, and that this way one is freed from the burdens of their station. Of course, it doesn't exactly work out like that, but I believe that Queen Anora thinks a masquerade will symbolize a fresh beginning."

The Warden waved this away, and Leliana let her, though she felt somewhat disheartened. If only Akana would _try_ to see the meaning in ritual, she might realize that it wasn't _all_ just stodgy, useless tradition... Ah, but to wish for such things was to wish away one of the woman's most infuriating and inspiring attributes at once.

"So the masks obviously don't work for people that know each other well. But for the most part, they hide your identity?"

"That's right," Leliana answered, slowly deciding that she wasn't sure she liked where this was going.

"Great," Akana replied, and the grin that spread across her mouth was pure devilry. "They won't hide the ears, at least."

"Huh-"

But Akana let out a sharp whistle through her teeth that cut her off, and Yorick immediately jerked to attention. "Go get Zevran," she commanded the warhound, who gave two booming barks in reply.

"Yorick!" She snapped, still cringing at the noise. The Mabari repeated the barks, but in his softer, gentler tone, and bounded off towards the door.

"Unless," Akana shouted after him, "Unless he's _busy_, you hear me Yorick? If he's, uh, _busy_, let him be." The dog was already opening the door, twisting the knob in his giant maw, but Leliana could have sworn that the Mabari _grinned_ at that. "I mean it!" Akana threatened, and Yorick gave a tiny woof around the doorknob. It wasn't long before he had pulled the heavy door open, and let himself out.


	12. You Are Invited: Dangerous Games

**A/N:** A bit on the lengthy side as far as my posts tend to go, but a wrap-up to Leliana's narrative (for now). Next: Masquerade! And Alistair.

* * *

**Leliana**

_**Jet Black: **__So what kind of woman is she? What's Julia like?__  
__**Faye Valentine: **__Ordinary. The kind of beautiful, dangerous ordinary that you just can't leave alone.__  
__**Jet Black: **__I see.__  
__**Faye Valentine: **__Like an angel from the underworld. Or a devil from Paradise.__  
__- Cowboy Bebop_

_

* * *

  
_

Leliana stared at now-open door for a while. "He can open doors!" She laughed in delight, and wondered why she might have ever doubted the Mabari.

"Yeah," Akana snickered, "and he never picks the lock, like some people I know."

"Zevran?" Leliana offered jokingly, smiling.

"Zevran's _politer_ than that," Akana replied with a smirk. "It might also have something to do with the fact that I'd break his fingers. One at a time."

The Bard laughed quietly: Akana was half-right. Zevran would not sneak around their leader's room; or if he did, he'd never, _ever_, let anyone catch him at it. She didn't think that Akana would actually hurt the man though, at least not for a simple transgression. Leliana had been there, after all, when Zevran had first tried to ambush them. Morrigan and Alistair had both been disgusted that she'd let the Assassin live, but Leliana had thought it rather brave in its own way.

"Why did you send for him, anyway? And what does it have to do with the invitation? I'm sure he's received one of his own."

But all she got out of the Warden was another one of those rather saucy grins and an even more tantalizing: "You'll see." Quite suddenly, Leliana was very aware that she was alone with Akana, in bed with her even, and that she'd never seen the Warden lying down. Well, she'd seen the Lady's body crumpled and broken and lifeless, with blood running out of her like ale from an uncorked keg, but not justlying in rest.

It was as if all her memories of Akana were of her fully armored and charging into battle, or hanging out the camp and bolstering their morale. Now though, it seemed that the sharp edges had been smoothed away, the warrior's normally steel-hard personality softening. Leliana found herself wondering if this woman had been underneath that impenetrable exterior all along, or if she was just starting to blossom now that her war was over.

_Alistair is a lucky, lucky man._ Leliana smiled at her friend, and gently pushed away the wistful daydream of running her fingers through the Heroine's hair.

The sound of nails clicking against stone approached, and Yorick slipped back into the room. Not far behind him was the Antivan. Whatever expression had been on his face before he entered the room, it was instantly erased and replaced with one of shock as he surveyed the destruction. He looked up quickly, and spotted Leliana and Akana lying, both unharmed, on the large bed across the room. The shock fluidly gave way to barely-contained curiosity, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

"I assume you have already commented on the state of the room?"

"Yes," Leliana replied, smiling at the blonde elf. He must not have been "busy," as Akana had been worried: he was impeccably dressed in a pair of calfskin pants and a black silk shirt, unbuttoned _just so. _

"Ah, well then." He smirked, bowing a concession, and headed closer to them, taking the same careful path that Leliana had earlier. "And the fact that you are sharing a bed with our lovely, though sadly romantically unavailable, Grey Warden? Have you two discussed this?"

"Oh Zevran," Leliana beamed at him, unable to stop herself: "Jealousy does not become you."

Thankfully the Assassin didn't take offense to having his own words turned against him, and instead let out a warm chuckle. "Touche." He eyed the space between them longingly. "Unfortunately, I assume that the Mabari wasn't sent to fetch me so that I could provide my _company. _How may I be of service, my Lady?"

Akana pushed her way into a sitting position, exposing her bare arms as she pulled the quilt's hem around her chest. Which was when Leliana realized, for the first time, that the Warden was _naked_ under the blankets. Heat rose into her cheeks, and it wasn't all from embarrassment, either. There was an odd set of bruises, high up on each of her arms, though, which resembled hand-prints. They couldn't be from the fight with the Archdemon, since Wynne had healed away all of the temporary damage afterwards. When Leliana glanced back at Zevran, the man was unreadable: the suave smile gone, his body perfectly relaxed in an utterly _practiced_ way.

"You've gotten one of these?" The Warden held up the invitation which Leliana and brought in. "The Masquerade thing or whatever?"

Zevran arched an eyebrow, but his expression was still unusually cool. Well, Leliana supposed that it was actually quite usual for him, though not when he spoke with Akana. "Yes. I would not think that Lady Tabris would be so inclined to attend a Ball."

"Please, don't get her started again," Leliana pleaded, also sitting with her back to the headboard now. Zevran smiled at her, but it didn't go further than his lips. "Though she wouldn't tell me _why_ she asked for you, and the suspense is killing me!" His eyes slid from her to Akana, and the methodical slowness of it made her nervous. She found herself being unpleasantly reminded of the fact that this man was a _killer. _What was all this attitude for, anyway?

"Well," Akana began. If she was especially perturbed by Zevran's aloofness it was hard to say, though a blip of confusion did flit across her face. "Leliana has informed me that I have to go to this thing because it's my duty to, I don't know, be political, and that it'll help out my fellow elves. That's about the gist of it, right?"

"Well, I did not phrase in such a manner, but yes, something like that."

"Right. Well, it occurred to me that people don't exactly get over their prejudices just by _talking_ about them, y'know. Just like you don't learn to swim by sitting on the dock and dipping your toes in. If you want to realize elves are people, you have to be... hm, put into situations where you've gotta deal with them like they're _already_ people."

Zevran regarded her with that same distance, and Leliana could tell that Akana was making her way to the point by a rather circular fashion. Neither of them interrupted her, and she took that as her cue to get to the point.

"Anyway, Zev-" Leliana thought she saw Zevran's ears twitch when Akana used the nickname, but she couldn't be sure. The effect it had, though, was unmistakable. Zevran shifted his weight, ever so slightly letting down the barrier he'd thrown up moments before. "-you think you can round me up some forgers? You've probably got a better idea of the places to look than I do."

Leliana wondered if Akana had done it on purpose: she didn't use the pet name often, as far as Leliana knew. No one did, really. But the Bard had never known Akana to be manipulative: if anything, it might have been a subconscious response to Zevran's detachment. She could not believe that Akana would intentionally exploit her friends in such a way; what she _could_ believe, however, was that Akana would intuitively sense her friend's withdrawal, and act in a way that would make him feel better.

Leliana might not have been able to say they were totally separate things, but they were different where it mattered.

"You suggest that we, mm, create our own invitations, yes? And that they should just _so happen_ to carry a mark bearing a striking resemblance to the Royal Seal?" The familiar warmth returned to Zevran's voice, and Leliana felt her unease dissipate -- at least in that regard. On the other hand, what Akana was suggesting was so _ridiculous!_

It also sounded like a great deal of _fun_, but forging the Royal Seal was tantamount to impersonating nobility, which was arguably on par with most _murders_ as far as legal punishments went.

"Mmm," Akana murmured, mimicking Zevran. She tapped her cheek, feigning thoughtfulness, and whatever coolness had come over the Assassin lifted completely. All was back to normal: Akana had the Crow eating out of her palm once more. "And if they _just so happen_ to have the same dates, and times-"

"-and location, and costume requirements-" Zevran interjected, encouraging the madness.

"-and then someone _delivers a stack of them to the Alienage_-" Akana grinned wide and, Leliana had to say, _dangerously._

"-well, if that happens, what a terrible mix-up it would be." Zevran finished the thought, muscles already lightly coiled, as if eager to spring into action. The look he gave the Warden was half-lidded, rich, wily. Watching them was actually making Leliana rather uncomfortable, and not for the obvious reason that their plan was crazy: she'd been temporarily cast aside, no choice but to be a spectator to a pair of partners in crime. They both had enough playfulness to include her, no doubt, and she wasn't so stiff as _some_ of their other companions. So why, then, was there so little room for her in all of this?

"Yes, I know, _terrible_," Akana egged it on. "All those elves with _formal invitations_ to a high-class event! All invited by the Queen! And to throw them out would be sooo dishonorable. Everyone would have to just _deal_ with it." The Warden lifted one hand to her mouth, squeezing her bottom lip gently for a moment, nervy and anxious. The look she gave Zevran was rather sinister, and Leliana thought to herself: _Maybe even a little inappropriate. _But she was imagining that, of course.

Then Akana laughed, and even if the plan was insane, it was obviously just in good humor.

"Fucking knife-ears, I tell you," Akana snickered, hand dropping back to her lap. Leliana wasn't sure that she was allowed to laugh at that, but Zevran certainly did, and so she smiled instead. "Anyway, so am I barking up the wrong tree? This party's tonight and I don't know anything about what kind of resources an undertaking of this sort calls for. Hell, I can barely write my _own_ name on a good day."

Zevran opened his mouth to answer, but Leliana cut him off.

"Wait -- you two are serious?" She asked, though she wasn't even sure why she bothered. Of _course_ Akana was being serious. This was exactly like her: finding a way to bend the rules if she couldn't quite break them, and scoring a casual dig at authority. The Bard's heart fluttered, but her stomach sank.

"Deadly serious," Akana smirked at her.

Leliana looked from elf to elf and back again. "B-but Akana, my dear, it does sound like a very funny thing to do, and believe me most of those nobles probably deserve nothing less than having their party crashed, but..."

"What Leliana is trying to say," Zevran smoothly stepped in. "Is that you are playing at the high stakes table now. These men and women who you -- quite deservedly, I may add -- deign to offend, are professionals at this game. And while I would sooner bet against the sunrise than name a feat you could not overcome, my Lady, you are very new to the political scene."

"Thank you, Zevr-"

"But," he shot Leliana a damnably handsome wink, "What's life without a little excitement?"

_Bastard!_

"I wouldn't be able to tell you," Akana laughed, and Leliana knew that the situation was beyond repairing now. "But I have been kind of bored since we saved the world. And they tell me that the chance that I'll get to stop another Blight in my lifetime is pretty _slim_."

Then, the Warden's bright eyes returned to Leliana. The tone in her voice became unexpectedly cautious, and the Bard realized that Akana actually hadbeen listening to her. "Do you really think it'll be that much of a problem?"

Before Leliana could answer, though, Akana looked down at her hands, muttering: "The last time I... When I killed the Arl's son, I mean, I know it was the right thing to do, but. A lot of people got hurt. They would have gotten hurt anyway, I think, and maybe it would have gotten even worse if Vaughn had been allowed to live, but-"

Leliana's jaw hung ajar, and she found herself useless in the face of her friend's vulnerability. The anger over what had happened was one thing: at least when Akana had been raging about it, she had been proactive, strong. "And then," she swallowed, voice more timid than the Bard had ever heard it, "then I left. I had to. Duncan. This- I left."

And when the Warden had returned, it'd only just been in time to stop her father from being shipped off as a slave. Many families hadn't been so lucky, and that only included the ones that hadn't already been destroyed by the Purge.

The air went out of the room very quickly, and it was Zevran who recovered first. He crossed the rest of the room, kneeling at the side of the bed. Taking one of Akana's hands in both of his, he ducked forward until he could meet her eyes. "That will not happen again, Akana."

_He's right,_ Leliana thought, only vaguely aware of the words as they entered her mind, _because she'd kill every single one of them, until the gutters were thick with Noble-blood. She would lead the elves and they would defend their home and Denerim could send every warm body it had -- not that half those soldiers would lift a finger against her, let alone a blade -- and she would snuff them out before they could take five steps past the gates._

The thought was grisly, but sometimes, the Bard realized, she had to remember just what her friend was capable of. And this included no small amount of violence. Akana might not have had the strategist's mind that it required to avoid a war of attrition, but when you had that much brute force, you didn't need it. You stood there and you took all the hits and all the losses, because you knew that your opponent would still fall before you did.

As much as Leliana had been trying to tell Akana all along that might wasn't always right, that sometimes you had to dress up and just pretend you gave a damn, it was hard to deny just how powerful the woman next to her was. She'd killed an Archdemon and _lived_ for the Maker's sake. Perhaps she really _was_ above the squabbles of the Court. And maybe that meant she could play her games with the nobles and their stupid intolerances and their bigotry and their stuffy formalities.

Maybe she _should_, because if Grey Warden Akana Tabris, Heroine of Ferelden couldn't poke a stick in the beehive of Denerim's nobility, who _could?_

"That will _never_ happen again," Zevran repeated, and Leliana saw his hands tighten around Akana's. Leliana was drawn out of her thoughts, particularly by the strange chime of... something different in Zevran's voice. "I- We wouldn't let it happen. None of us would. They'd have to come through all of us. And you." The corners of the Assassin's eyes wrinkled benevolently for just a fraction of a second. "And that, of course, is what they would really have to worry about, no?"

Again, Leliana wondered if she was seeing something unfold that shouldn't, or at least that she shouldn't be witness to.

_So what if he _is_ a little in love with her, _Leliana scolded herself, trying to be reassuring. _Aren't we all? It is impossible not to be, and it would be worse if he fought it. She is a hero, The Hero, and heroes are loved, whether they ask for it or not. _

She knew it was a romantic thought, a shade tragic too, but one did not pay as close and careful attention to stories as she did and _not_ learn this.

Still...

Akana finally squeezed Zevran's hands back, and then broke the contact. She turned her eyes away. "Of course not, you're right." In an instant she'd re-fastened her emotional armor, stuff even thicker than her prized Dragonscale. Leliana was a bit guilty to find that she was much more comfortable with _this_ Akana.

Zevran stood, plucking up the invitation as he did so. Leliana pretended not to see the way the back of his hand slid, however briefly, along the contour made by Akana's thigh from under the sheets. "I will take care of this; do not worry."

The Bard took this as their cue to leave, and pried herself away from the comfort of the large bed. "I should be on my way as well, Lady. I'll see you in a few hours and we can prepare for the Ball together."

"But it's not until much later?" Akana asked, frowning lightly.

Zevran, slick as usual, was already half-way out the door. He'd had a smirk on his face that showed that _he_ knew why she'd be back so soon, and that he also knew he didn't want to be around when Akana figured it out. Leliana moved as quickly towards the door as possible, without breaking into a run.

"What, I mean, I just have to have my hair like brushed or pinned or something, right? That shouldn't-"

Leliana had a hand on the doorknob.

"Wait. WAIT A SECOND."

"I'll see you before you know it, Lady!" Leliana chirped, shutting the door behind her.

"DO I HAVE TO _WEAR A DRESS?!_" Akana's voice, while muffled behind the closed door, was still clearly audible. Smiling to herself, the Bard turned to leave, when she felt a tap at her shoulder.

Leliana jumped at least four inches into the air as she spun to see Zevran at her side. She'd thought he'd already been long gone: she hadn't noticed him when she left, not even from her peripherals, and he'd been absolutely silent. "Maker's Breath, Zevran, I didn't see-"

"Walk with me," he instructed, voice very low, and set off at a hurried pace down the hall. Since it didn't seem that she had much choice, Leliana complied.

"What is it?"

"You saw those marks on Akana's arms, did you not? The bruises?"

Leliana blinked, remembering not only the finger-shaped, purple-blue marks, but Zevran's coldness right after he'd noticed them as well. She nodded.

"Those are not from the battle. Wynne would have taken care of them, and they looked fresh, besides."

"What are you saying, Zevran?" Something ugly tugged at Leliana's mind, but really, Zevran _couldn't_ think that... no, she had to hear him say it. He couldn't think that, could he?

"You saw how the room looked."

She still couldn't believe that Zevran was carrying on with this. "Zevran, you of all people should know that passion can be rough." Talking this way about Alistair and Akana was putting a sour taste in Leliana's mouth, and she wanted very badly to wash her hands of this conversation. Particularly because she didn't want to entertain the idea that Zevran might be on to something.

"Of course. But Alistair-"

"-is a trained _warrior_ who probably doesn't even know his own strength. Really, you cannot possibly-"

"Leliana, answer me truthfully." They'd stopped walking now, and he stared earnestly into her eyes. With the full force of Zevran's attention upon her, Leliana suddenly wondered how Akana could stand it: it was like being butterfly pinned to a bit of cork for some fanatic collector to inspect. "Do you believe that Alistair would harm Akana?"

"No!"

"Not even subconsciously?"

Leliana found her resolve wavering slightly, and she couldn't tell if it was because she _did _think there was a chance of it, or if she was just influenced by the sharp glint in Zevran's intense gaze. "...no."

"And yet," Zevran continued, "he has."

The Bard let this sink in for a moment, opening her mouth several times to retort, and finding no words available. "What's your point, Zevran?" She finally asked.

"That is my point."

Leliana knew that he was sincere, knew that he thought there was more to the story than merely some aftereffect of a raucous night of love-making. But it was lunacy to even consider anything else. If Zevran wanted to start down that mad road, then that was his choice, but she could not -- would not -- walk it with him.

"I'm sure it was just an accident." She saw his lips tighten, almost imperceptibly. "And even... Maker-forbid, even something happened that _wasn't_ an accident, it's not like Akana can't handle herself. She's the best fighter Ferelden's seen in centuries, something I'm sure she would demonstrate for you personally if you suggested _any_ of this to her_._"

And then, just as quickly as the conversation had started, it ended. Like a door slamming shut and locking, Zevran's gaze became utterly unreadable, his posture even more so. "Mm," he replied neutrally. "Perhaps you are right. My mistake."

"Zevran-"

He waved it away, giving her a smile so well-rehearsed that she almost didn't realize it was fake, even standing right next to him. "Enjoy fitting our Lady for her dress. I do not envy you. See you tonight, Leliana." With that he walked away, the invitation still held loosely in one hand. Leliana stared at it for a moment, trying to remember-

"Oh, but you forgot-"

He'd already turned a corner, gone.

"-to tell her how much those would cost."

And Leliana realized that Zevran had not forgotten anything.


	13. One of Her Kind: Politically Incorrect

**A/N:** First chapter for the masquerade sequence, as told by Alistair. He'll have another one or two parts, and then it'll be moving on to Akana.

Thanks for all the reviews on the last chapter guys, I really appreciate it. And because I promise that I will personally thank everyone that leaves a review, thank you Diana, even if you do not have an account. =) I can't send you a full reply like I do with other folks, but just know that I am very happy that you're enjoying the story!

Tomorrow may be a busy day, so I'm not sure that the next part will be up within 24 hours, but I'll do my best.

PS: Does it drive anyone else absolutely CRAZY that Alistair's name is spelled wrong in the character selection drop downs? It makes me go cross-eyed nuts every time I look down the Dragon Age boards and see a ton of "So-and-So & Alistar."

* * *

**Alistair**

_I was about half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty... you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are.  
- The Catcher in the Rye, J. D. Salinger_

_

* * *

_

Another elf passed in front of him: they were hard to tell from the humans when you got down to it, really, unless they had their hair cut short or pulled back to reveal their ears. Alistair had never seen so many elves outside of a Dalish camp or the Alienage, and they seemed to be having a good time mingling with the nobility and Denerim's other finest.

The initial reaction had seemed to be mixed confusion: no one was sure how to treat their Alienage-bred company. After a while, however, the ambitious little bloodsuckers had acted just as they could be expected to -- searching out profitable relationships. With all the new talk about the establishing of a noble house in the Alienage (the cousin of the Warden, no less!), there was no shortage of fertile networking-grounds to be tilled. Plus, not being able to tell elf from human after a few drinks sure didn't hurt.

Alistair had never considered himself particularly prejudiced against elves, or anyone else for that matter. He'd always assumed that had been part of his personality, namely the "Lack of Appropriate Discerning Ability" that he'd been accused of during his training as a Templar. They'd seen it more as a sign of laziness than anything else, and he figured that probably had something to do with it too, but really, he couldn't get all that worked up about hating a species that was so similar to his own and didn't cause any more trouble than anyone else. When you made your glory fighting Darkspawn after all, you tended to learn pretty quickly who your real enemies were.

There was, of course, the matter of Akana being an elf. It wasn't like that minor detail escaped his notice the first time he met her. The exact order of his thoughts had been something like: "Short. Female! ...very pretty. Talking to me. Sunlight in her hair and she's actually smiling -- is she laughing at my jokes? Oh, right, yes, armored too. Still talking to me. Am I dreaming? Wait, she's an elf? Wait, _she's the new recruit isn't she?_ Crap, Alistair, you fool! The name, the name, the name..."

And for a while, that had been the extent of how far he'd acknowledged that. It'd always seemed much stranger (and more wonderful, too) that she was a woman and a Grey Warden than an elf and a Grey Warden. He'd thought about it a couple nights at camp, lying alone in his bunk -- thinking about Akana was about all he did in those hours before sleep actually overtook him. Zevran would probably scoff at him, and Leliana would do that giggle that she did when she thought he was being _oh so cuuute!,_but it wasn't like he could spend all that time dreaming up steamy things he had never thought would come true in a thousand-thousand years. So Alistair had thought about what had made Akana the way she was.

Being a woman had a lot to do with it, he was sure, because you didn't grow up in a place where the orphan boys became one thing and the orphan girls became another without learning that being a woman meant certain very different standards were expected of you. And even so, Akana wasn't like any woman he'd met. Duncan _did_ tell him in private, while she was still out cold from the Joining (but alive, thank the Maker, alive), that Akana reminded him of a Warden that he'd known when he was young.

The older Warden hadn't said much more, and from the tone of his voice Alistair knew that now wasn't the time to ask -- it had sounded like there was history there. All Duncan offered was that he'd only just been recruited when he met her, and that the woman had been older, not-long for the Deep Roads. There was a pang in Alistair's heart, despite the merry atmosphere: it was just another thing he'd never gotten a chance to ask Duncan about, and now he never would. Even so, he doubted that any woman, Grey Warden or no, could be anything like Akana; and he knew that that was awfully sappy and mushy, so maybe he wouldn't _tell_ anyone, but that wouldn't stop him from thinking it to himself.

But at any rate, if being a woman had played part in making Akana who she was, being an elf was probably twice as important. Being born an elf either meant that you were an outcast forever wandering, living with the dying hope of reclaiming your heritage, or that you ended up in an Alienage. And as much as the walls of the Chantry had felt like a cage, they actually put barred gates at the exits of the Alienage: and those gates had only been made to lock from the _outside._ He'd lived in a metaphorical cage, maybe, but she'd lived in a real one.

Which still might not have been so bad -- the elves had each other, at least -- if it weren't for men like Vaughn. Thinking of him made Alistair's blood run a little faster, even if he'd never met the man and never would, thanks to his fellow Warden. Good _riddance._ Men like that didn't deserve to live, no matter what the cost. _Like Loghain,_ Alistair thought darkly, and even if he wasn't sure it was the same thing, it felt plenty similar enough. That bastard had been selling people into slavery, and those animals already had Akana's father in a cage by the time they'd gotten there.

_Happy thoughts, Alistair, happy thoughts._ He took the time to make himself look around the ballroom. Even if he wasn't one to be easily dazzled by displays of wealth -- true wealth didn't come from coins or riches, oh wasn't he a _sucker_ -- he still had to hand it to the Queen. There were dozens upon dozens of people milling about in a multitude of colors, like a flock of exotic birds. A lot of them even had the feathers to match, and each mask seemed more outrageous than the next. And now when he saw the elves, making note of each one his gaze came across, he smiled.

"Maker, she's brilliant," he murmured to himself. Okay, so, _brilliant_ might not have been the best word. Akana wasn't exactly going to be writing a tome on the historical mistreatment of her people. Though he'd never say it to her, or anyone for that matter, Alistair was also pretty sure that she might not be so great with reading in general. Of course she _could_, but the schools in the Alienage weren't exactly what they were elsewhere. Not that he cared about something so stupid: what good was reading, anyway? The Chantry had taught him plenty of awfully long words, and they were just a terrible mouthful, so why would anyone even bother with them? _He_ definitely didn't.

Which wasn't to say that Akana wasn't intelligent. She was damn _clever_, that was for sure. Well, when she bothered to be. Which was to say, when she thought she was playing a game. If it was a game, that meant that open violence was off-limits, and then her playfulness just manifested with sprightly little plans like this one. When it _wasn't_ a game and there was a challenge, she just attacked it with out-and-out, head-on force.

...maybe she was a bit lazy too, in her own way.

Cautiously, Alistair tried to spot her in the crowd.

He had to ignore the surge of guilt that welled up inside of him. Earlier, after running away from her bed like a child, Alistair had gone to the kitchens and gorged himself. It'd been hard to eat at first, his stomach queasy for more reasons than one, but after the first few bites of hot eggs and sausage and grits with syrup... he'd felt better. Not that he had much right to feel better, but having food in his belly made it easier to think.

The conclusion Alistair had come to was that he'd been drunk, and the sudden_ lack_ of the stress of ending the Blight had made him forget, for a while, all the other things he still had to worry about. Like Morrigan. Mostly Morrigan. And his... child. Maker, he had a _child_ with that sodding witch, a child who now had the soul of an Archdemon. He wasn't even sure which of those was more alarming. And they were on the loose!

Which did not, in any way, excuse him for his actions. Hurting Akana, even if it was only a bit of bruising, wasn't just unacceptable. It was worse than that. He didn't even think he was _capable_ of lashing out at her in anger. But he had, and though Alistair couldn't change the past, he certainly could make sure it never, ever, ever happened again.

When all of these things sounded good and whole in his head, he'd wiped his mouth off with one of the fancy, expensive napkins, gave one of the kitchen maids a smile and a wave on his way out, and set off for the bedroom. He was prepared to beg for forgiveness, and profess his undying commitment to being gentlemanly for the rest of time, and it had been such a _great plan_ until he knocked on the door.

Akana had opened it, pulling him inside. And when he'd started to explain, stuttering like a fool but _trying_, she'd told him to forget about it. He'd persisted -- he had to at least give himself credit for that -- but she had kissed him, and insisted (using her hands, rather than words) that everything was fine between them. Though he knew he probably should have pressed the matter, made them both sit down and talk it over, Alistair had caved to her relentless, and hot-mouthed, and wet-tongued, and sleepy-eyed refusal to acknowledge that anything wrong had happened.

She just made it so easy not to think about those things, because _she_ didn't want to think about them either, and really, if they both ignored it, maybe it was like it never happened...

He was a bad, bad man. Alistair didn't think he'd ever be able to take a stand against her, either. Not when her solutions were so much more fun, and required so much less words and explaining and apologizing. If she understood that he was sorry, and that he wouldn't do it again, that was enough, wasn't it?

Something inside of him very strongly disagreed, but he pushed that away.

Alistair continued to search for Akana, but he wasn't sure what she was wearing, which was making it worse. If anyone saw him _looking_ for her, they might want to actually bring them _together._ So he had to carefully search through the swarming mass of people, without appearing to do so. _Act casual,_ Alistair instructed himself, and groaned inwardly: he could _never_ act casual. He always ended up doing something stupid and awkward.

"Well my, don't we look absolutely dashing?" Alistair nearly jumped out of his skin when Leliana's familiar accent popped up behind him. He turned to face her. The Bard was outfitted in a lovely, (if low-cut) dress, red with gold trim. Her mask came down to just above her nose, and rose high on her face -- not the simple domino eye-masks that many of the women wore. This was a lighter, pinker color, though the details were still in gold. Short feathers sprouted from the eyes like eye-lashes, and as absurd as it was, Alistair thought that if anyone could wear this ridiculous stuff and make it seem absolutely natural and fashionable, it was Leliana.

Alistair looked over each shoulder, as if to find the person she must have been speaking to. Leliana laughed, shaking her head lightly.

"Don't be silly, Alistair. I'm sure you're well aware of how handsome you are, especially in those finely tailored clothes."

"I'm aware of no such thing, m'lady Bard." But, really, he _kind_ of was. He was wearing a charcoal grey shirt that hung well enough on his broad shoulders, and a dark pair of pants. More than that, though, his did like his mask. It was simple, simpler than a lot of the ones that he saw people wearing (Leliana included), but it was nice. It was made from satin and silk, a color like storm clouds just about to burst, and it was cut at hard angles, rather than the curved slopes of most masks. In a way it was like a little piece of armor, the look of it, and he thought that its plainness actually made it stand out.

"Mhm," Leliana replied, eyeing him knowingly. "The grey suits you, though I'm sure that wasn't why you picked it."

"It's all right," Alistair conceded.

"All right? Have you seen the looks these women have been giving you?"

"What? No, what looks? I'm getting looks?" He glanced side to side, mostly for the comedic value -- and caught some ladies looking directly at him! Quite _hungrily_, in fact. Alistair quickly refocused on Leliana.

Leliana laughed, and nodded. "They're rather improper, aren't they? And some are downright lustful." Alistair felt himself begin to blush. "I'm sure they all have half a mind to ask _you_ to dance, rather than just waiting and daydreaming about you asking them."

"Well, none of them have, so I guess I can't be making all the girls quite so crazy as you say, Leliana." Maybe he was a little disappointed.

She rolled her eyes. "It didn't cross your mind that the fact that you share a bed with the most fearsome woman alive might be something of a deterrent?" Well, she had a point. If Akana were between him and an object of desire, well, he wouldn't be in any rush to interfere. "Anyway, you look remarkably handsome, Alistair. You even match her dress, too. Quite the gentleman."

"Her dress? Oh! Akana? Where is she?" Alistair gave a peek look around, and then turned back to Leliana. "Wait, you find her, and you tell me."

"You haven't seen her?" Leliana's brow furrowed in disbelief.

"No, not yet."

"How? Didn't you two arrive together? Aren't you _here_ together?" She sounded distressed, like a bad omen was coming true.

"Er. Sort of. No. Not really." Leliana stared at him openly, and Alistair realized he was going to have to elaborate. "We're avoiding each other."

"What?!"

"No! No nothing like _that._ It's just. We made a pact, before you two went to go get ready. Neither of us want to dance, and we just _know_ that people will make us do it if they find us together. So we're both trying to stay as far apart as possible." Leliana no longer looked horrified, but she was still gaping at him like he had a third eye.

"You don't want to dance with her?"

Alistair looked down at the marble floor, feeling a bit hot under the collar of his dress shirt. "I mean. I guess I do, a little. But-" He looked up quickly at Leliana, before the Bard could get any ideas. "But I'd probably be _awful_. Two left feet, nothing but fumbling, clammy hands and- well, you get the idea. Besides, _she_ doesn't want to dance."

"I'm sure you wouldn't be nearly as bad as you think, Alistair," Leliana said reassuringly. "Besides, how do you know that she didn't just say she didn't want to dance because she didn't think _you_ wanted to?"

He arched an eyebrow, skeptically. "Akana?"

"Well it's _possible._"

"We're talking about the same woman, right? About this tall, bright-bright hair, pointy ears?" He held up an index finger on each side of his head for emphasis. And only realized too late how inappropriate the gesture might seem. Damn it all.

"Ah, Alistair. As sensitive to your environment as always." This voice was also familiar, though he wasn't half as enthused about hearing it as he was with Leliana's. Zevran stepped up to them both.

"That's me. Mister Politically-Correct. See anyone else around that I should offend, while I'm at it?" Alistair could hide _most_ of the displeasure in his voice, but not _all_ of it. He was still none-too-happy with the Assassin after the incident at the Feast. The elf was dressed in all whites and blacks: jet-black leather pants, a ruffled white shirt, and a white mask with asymmetrical black trim in a spiraling design. It wasn't showy or garish, really, but it was definitely suave, and Alistair couldn't help but feel a bit jealous.

But Zevran wasn't paying attention to him: the sneaky bugger was looking somewhere in the distance, over Alistair's shoulder. Alistair thought it might have been a joke for a moment -- a 'Hey, look over there!,' but when you did there wasn't anything -- but Zevran's gaze was too intent for that. So, with a scowl, still half-expecting a trick, Alistair turned around.

It took him a while to see what the Assassin's hawk-like eyes had picked out, but when he did his mouth when dry and his hands started to sweat all at once.

Akana.


	14. One of Her Kind: Elf and Warden

**A/N:** Just a little bit of confrontation. A smidge!

* * *

**Alistair**

_I was about half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty... you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are.  
- The Catcher in the Rye, J. D. Salinger _

_

* * *

  
_

Akana was standing some ways across the ballroom floor, chatting with her two cousins, Soris and Shianni. The three of them looked as thick as thieves, laughing while Soris acted out some story or another. That alone would have been enough to stop Alistair in his tracks: to see her so happy, so unguarded, obviously enjoying the company of her family.

But what really took his breath away was the sight of her. Her hair gleamed, with silver pins decorating it, pulling it away from her face (where it tended to fall during battle). It made the curve of her jaw and neck seem so slender, delicate, and her ears more pronounced, exotic. He knew she'd had the back of the left one tattooed, an intricate design with ink so blue that it was iridescent in strong light, but now it was visible even in the chandelier glow of the ballroom. A line of earrings -- there had to be at least five, by his count -- pierced the stretch of cartilage along the top of the same ear. Usually they were just small metal studs, but for tonight they'd been swapped out for a web-like piece of jewelry that glittered with what had to be diamonds.

"I've never seen her tattoo so vivid," Zevran said quietly behind them. Alistair felt a dull flare of anger rise and then fall inside of him: _he_ hadn't noticed it until long after meeting her, and that had only been from a chance peek over at her from across the campfire one night. What right did Zevran have to know these small and beautiful things about her? But really, he couldn't stay mad at him, couldn't think about Zevran, not when he was still staring at her. "It means sorrow," the Assassin added, and that, that Alistair had _not_ known. It'd never occurred to him that it _meant_ anything; Akana had never seemed eager to talk about it, even when Alistair had marveled over the tattoo ("Didn't this _hurt?!_") for hours on end.

From this angle, her side turned to them, he could see her face (maskless as it was) in profile. Dark, smoky kohl had been applied over her eyes, making the crystal-light grey of her irises luminous. On her lips was an odd, and entirely entrancing, metallic sheen: not red or pink or purple like the other ladies assembled, but the color of steel. He hadn't even known that such things were possible, but he was suddenly very glad for it. Akana threw her head back and laughed, and though he couldn't hear it from this distance, he instantly felt a great desire to be there, already knowing the sound of it in his head. It was, after all, his most favorite thing in all the world to listen to.

As her spine arched back his eyes traveled down her body. The dress she wore was, as Leliana had mentioned, very close in color to Alistair's shirt, though it was darker, and the shadows pooled in its drapes like shifting wells of ink. It hitched at only one shoulder, rather than both, pinned with a brooch that he'd never seen before. The length of it actually trailed a little on the ground, a distinctly feminine touch -- vulnerable because it was so hindering -- which only made the experience that much more surreal. At least, until she rebalanced her weight again, and Alistair saw, for a moment, an expanse of bare calf and leg and _dear Maker_, even thigh.

The folds and draping silk meant that it was only a glimpse, then gone again, hard to ever get more than an tiny eyeful at a time, but even that started a heat low in his belly. _As if,_ he thought, laughing at himself, _as if she'd let a stupid dress keep her from moving around._ But this wasn't a stupid dress, not at all, and-

"Leliana, I could _kiss_ you." He wasn't sure that he'd meant to say anything, but, well, out the words came, as they were wont to do.

"You would have to stop drooling first, Alistair." Leliana laughed, and he could hear the pride in her voice. "But you're welcome. The both of you, in fact." And though she laughed afterwards, Alistair pull his eyes away to glance in Zevran's direction. Lurid stares weren't exactly new territory for the elf, so Alistair shouldn't have been _surprised_really, but what he saw on the Assassin's face wasn't the same look it usually was. It was close, sure -- all ogling and with far too much curiosity -- but there was more dumbstruck awe in it. Alistair knew very well what stupefied wonder looked like, too, because it was a staple in his store of regular expressions. He wasn't sure if that was better or worse than the usual Zevran-lingering-stare, but he still didn't like it.

Zevran came to his senses a second later, blinking and looking away. Alistair narrowed his eyes at the elf. He wasn't one to get into meaningless displays of dominance... okay, he was, but mostly only in jest. Besides, he was fairly certain that Akana would throttle him pretty hard if he did make a fuss about other men looking at her -- even if Oghren had been riding his case about it ever since they brought the dwarf back to camp.

Oghren kept insisting that beating other guys to a pulp if they eyed your lass was a way of showing how much you cared, and that even if the girl didn't _act_like she liked it, it really drove them wild. And while the dwarf was pretty easy to ignore (Alistair wouldn't trade his love life for Oghren's under any circumstances, thankyouverymuch), it was bad when even Sten had made a comment on it. Alistair remembered it all too well.

- - - - -

It'd been another cold night among many at camp, and Alistair had excused himself away to just beyond the forest's edge so that he could take a leak as discreetly as possible. When he'd finished up and turned to go back to camp, Sten had been there, arms crossed over his barrel-like chest. Alistair hadn't heard him come up at all, and if he hadn't just emptied his bladder, he probablywould have done it again all over the Beresaad's boots. And then he'd have _really_ been in trouble.

While Alistair was contemplating how long he had to squeal for help, or if it'd be better just to die in silence (so that at least the others wouldn't watch Sten crush his skull in his hands), Sten had spoken.

"Do you not sense the threat?" He'd asked in his deep voice.

"No, I think I sense it quite loud and clear, thank you!" Alistair had chirped back.

"Then why do you not act on it? Eliminate it?" Maker, the Qunari were strange.

"Well, y'see, I just like you _too darn much_ Sten, and I-"

"Me? What does this have to do with me?" Sten had scowled in the way that only he could, obviously puzzled.

"Oh. _You_ weren't talking about you?"

"Of course not," he'd rumbled. "_I_ am no threat to your mating courtship with our leader."

Alistair had nearly choked on his tongue. "Andraste's arse, _I would hope not._" Sten had just continued to glare at him, and finally he couldn't help but ask. "Okay then, who is?"

"The Assassin, clearly. The Bard to a lesser extent -- I do not think that she satisfies the leader's sexual appetites."

"Hey now," Alistair had bristled, finding his courage despite the large warrior looking down on him. "You watch whose _appetites_ you're talking about." Sten merely grunted, a short noise of irritation. "But really? Leliana? I... I don't even know what to think about that. You're sure? I thought they were just good friends."

"She makes frequent physical contact with the Grey Warden Akana."

"Yes but, just like, touching her hair or fixing her armor straight and stuff like that. She's Orlesian, they do that sort of thing. Plus Leliana's just _girly_. Girls do that." But now that the hulking mass of humorless muscle mentioned it...

"Fine. Ignore the signs of attraction. Perhaps you are even correct: I do not profess to have great knowledge of Fereldan customs, let alone those of the outlying nations. For that matter, as I said, the Bard is not the greatest concern."

"Right. Zevran." Alistair had frowned, and then shrugged. "You're right. I can't say I like the guy, I still can't believe we let him sleep in the same camp and eat our food after what he tried, _and_ he hits on everything that's got a pulse. But he's not a... a threat to... to what's between me and Akana."

The Beresaad was not convinced. "Your certainty is unwarranted. He is more clever than you are, and is quite experienced with mating."

Alistair, feeling the sting of _that_ little comment very distinctly, quipped back: "Know that personally, do you?"

"Your jokes only expose your insecurity."

Damn him.

"Look, Sten. I don't know why you're bothering to tell me this -- if it's out of fondness for me, which is unlikely, or Akana, which is still pretty unlikely, or if you just like making people uncomfortable -- but I'm not worried. Akana wouldn't fall for someone like Zevran. She's too smart for that. Besides, all Zevran's got to offer is sex. We're _more_ than that. We were way more than that before we ever even started... uh... doing that. Zevran's a lying, cheating-"

"He is one of her kind." And Sten had said it so _definitively_, as if nothing could be more _simple than that_, that Alistair had floundered.

"_I'm_ one of her kind," he finally growled back. Alistair had pushed roughly past the Qunari, aware that he'd probably never hear him speak so much at once ever again. Trudging back to the campfire, he'd found that he wasn't too upset by the thought.

- - - - -

Alistair, being pulled back from the memory, was aware that Leliana was talking to the both of them.

"-so I finally got her to agree to wear a dress, and trust me, _that_ took longer than everything else combined. I kept asking her what color she wanted, and she kept saying _grey, _and I thought she was _joking_. I mean, I thought she was just being difficult, because grey isn't really a proper color, is it? I had thought I could at least get her into a dark red, or maybe a green, but she told me she wanted it to be grey. I didn't realize she was serious until she grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted: _I'll wear the gods-damned dress for the Maker's sake, Leliana, but I want it to be GREY! They make grey dresses! I'm sure of it!"_

Alistair smiled, eager to leave behind that scene with Sten, even if it meant listening to the babbling of their resident Bard. "She probably thought you were crazy."

"I might as well have been," Leliana replied. "It was embarrassing how long it took me to realize she meant grey as in _Grey Warden_. You'd think I would know it by now."

Hard to argue with that, wasn't it?

"The brooch is elven make, and old. Where did it come from?" Zevran's voice was almost reverent, and Alistair looked back to the Assassin, sizing him.

"Oh yes," Leliana said quietly, her smile dimming. "It was her mother's. Her father wanted her to wear it. He pinned it on for her himself, and it was so _sweet_. There were tears in his eyes the whole time."

"And she's wearing the necklace too," Zevran murmured. The words came so softly that Alistair almost didn't catch them. This time it wasn't just a bit of anger in his blood, but unease sliding in, something nauseating. Akana always kept her necklace hidden: well, except for now, apparently, because there was no armor to tuck it under. Zevran shouldn't be able to recognize it; _maybe_ as an elf thing, but certainly not like he'd seen it before.

"How did you-" Alistair started, but Leliana shushed them both.

"You'll miss the best part!" And because looking was easier than confronting, by far, Alistair looked back towards Akana. It wasn't as if he needed much prompting to look in her direction anyway. He wasn't sure what Leliana meant, and then Soris looked over at them, and cupped one hand to the side of his mouth. From the way his eyebrows waggled, it was obvious that he was making some kind of joke at their expense -- which of them, it was impossible to tell.

_Probably me,_ Alistair thought, though he didn't really blame the guy.

Akana laughed, and then punched her cousin in the arm, hard. Well, it probably hadn't seemed too hard to _her_, but Soris's face turned into a comical expression of pain, and he grabbed the spot roughly with his other hand.

All of those details fell away though now, as Akana turned to look at them. _Him._ Akana looked at _him._ It had crossed his mind that she hadn't been wearing a mask, and he'd figured that Leliana had just considered it a battle hard-won to get her to wear a dress and left it at that. Now, though, he saw it. It didn't go completely across her face, but rather only the right side. It began just above her right cheekbone, and seemed to _erupt_ out from there, like-

Like silver scales, almost. Or like small plates of steel. The pieces of what must have been very light metal were directly attached to her skin around her eye and forehead, even elongating into sweeping spikes at her temple. It was like nothing Alistair had seen, at this masquerade or anywhere else, except perhaps on the drakes they'd fought. Now the metallic lip gloss made more sense, and the longer he looked, the more dragonish the "mask" became. It was elegant and unsettling and armor-like all at once, and Alistair pitied any man who'd ever fallen for a woman who _wasn't_ at least a little unnerving.

Zevran whistled low, and Alistair didn't even feel annoyed by it: all he could do was agree.

_Brilliant. Maker, she's so, so brilliant._

"Where did you even get something like that?" Alistair asked Leliana.

"You remember Wade? He scoffed at first, but then Akana gave him an invitation, and he decided that it was actually a new and exciting project."

"It looks _real_, for the Maker's sake. Like -- like she's turning into something else."

"Doesn't it? I could barely believe it when I saw it. I almost wanted to tell her not to wear it, it's so eerily perfect. But it was the only thing I didn't have to fight with her on, and it _is_ beautiful, in its own way."

Akana smiled at him, and Alistair felt his chest swell. She lifted one hand and gave him a tiny wave, and like the grinning dolt he was, he waved back, pointing at the right side of his face and mouthing: I LIKE YOUR MASK, before giving her a thumbs up. Akana grinned, and winked a him. She raised her hands like claws, and wordlessly shouted back: _I'M AN ARCHDEMON._

Alistair snorted a laugh. "She says she's an Archdemon." Akana looked away from him for a moment, leaning over to whisper something to Shianni. Shianni was wearing a deep purple dress and matching mask, and though it was very pretty, it was boring compared to Akana's outfit. Then again, so was everyone else's. He wasn't exactly an impartial judge, either.

"Yes, she mentioned that her one consolation throughout the night would be imagining what all these prissy nobles would do if they'd ever had to meet one. I advised her against sharing that with anyone."

"Well, I have to say, if the Archdemon had looked like _that, _ending the Blight would have been a lot harder." Though Alistair kept his tone light, he realized that he wasn't entirely comfortable with where this conversation was going. He didn't like talking about the Blight, really, or even the Archdemon. Akana could joke about it, sure, and he'd definitely join in, but it always brought his thoughts back, eventually, to _Morrigan._

And the last time he'd thought about her...

"Looks like the bruises have been taken care of," Zevran muttured, as if reading his mind -- and not too quietly, either. A chill instantly ran through Alistair's veins, and he snapped his head back to gauge the Assassin. He hadn't expected Zevran to even glance in his direction, but now the elf's eyes were focused on his, and what he saw there was nothing if it wasn't challenging. It was like Zevran suspected something _horrible_ about him, and who in all of the Maker's creation was he to judge, the backstabbing snake that he was?

Alistair felt his body go taut, though the Assassin didn't so much as flinch or change his relaxed posture. Even Leliana had noticed the tension between them, and Alistair saw her step back from the corner of his eyes.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that, could you repeat it?" The Templar asked, the growl in his voice only thinly covered with a fake-polite tone.

"Perhaps too many blows to the skull has started to effect your hearing, no?" Zevran replied, and the only sign that he sensed the incoming fight was the fact that he hadn't blinked yet, not once. "I said-"

"Shianni!" Leliana cried, and then deliberately stepped between them.

For a moment the three of them were just standing awkwardly close, before he and Zevran broke eye contact, and stepped away. Alistair looked over to see Shianni approaching them; he felt his heart sink a little when Akana wasn't with her. In fact, Akana and Soris seemed to be moving to a different area of the ballroom now, somewhere further in.

"Hello Leliana," Shianni replied as she walked to towards them. "Alistair. Zevran." Before Alistair could react (he was still all tensed up from the not-quite-encounter with Zevran), Shianni leaned up on her toes and planted a kiss right over his mouth. He only flinched back at the last second, but by then it was too late, and she was already finished. Zevran and Leliana stared.

"Er-" Alistair managed, too confused to really feel anything else, anger forgotten.

"That's from Akana," Shianni said, and though she blushed furiously, her voice didn't waver. _Maker, daredevil nerves must run in the family, _he remarked to himself, feeling the prickly heat of a blush rise in his face, burning all the way to his ears.

"Oh. Um. Thank you for delivering the message," he replied lamely, and then suddenly found his shoes very interesting.

Leliana giggled, and Zevran looked unusually impassive. "I believe this is where I excuse myself, ladies and-" Zevran began.

"Leaving so soon?" Shianni asked him, and it was obvious even to Alistair -- to whom very few things were ever _obvious_, especially anything that had to do with romantic inclinations -- that she was smitten with the Assassin. How she could be so taken with him, especially after he'd already turned her down after the Feast, was beyond Alistair. But he didn't understand how any woman, or person, could find Zevran so desirable in the first place. If you couldn't _trust_ someone, why in the world would you want to _sleep_ with them? "I was hoping you'd ask me to dance."

Alistair wondered briefly if Akana had been this forward. She hadn't been, that he could remember, but after months of sharing his nights with her, he realized that that'd been for his sake more than anything else. It was definitely his Lady's nature to, er, be _forthright._ Akana had probably just been too afraid that she'd scare him off.

Hah, like she _could_ have.

(She probably could have. He was very, very, very glad that she had not.)

Zevran smiled, and then -- Alistair could hardly believe what he was seeing -- seemed to mentally restrain himself. "I would like nothing more, my Lady. You look absolutely captivating, and any man would count his blessings for the day he shared close quarters with such a enrapturing beauty. Alas," he continued, and there was authentic regret in his voice, "I am under strict orders to, as they say, keep my distance."

"From who?" Shianni asked, perplexed, but Leliana and Alistair already knew of course. Alistair was just surprised that Zevran was keeping his word about it. The oh-so-charming elf would probably steal Akana's cousin away into some broom closet the first opportunity he had, when no one was around to catch him in the act.

"I... should not say." Zevran did, however, offer her a low and courteous bow. _What,_ Alistair grumbled inwardly, _no kissing her hand? Touching her cheek?_ But there was nothing like that, and for all Alistair wanted another reason to hate him, the Assassin exited as gracefully and tactfully as possible. "A pleasant and memorable evening to the three of you. I'll be lingering about -- you have only to call if you need me."

Shianni watched him go, actually pouting. Then, realization dawned on her, and she turned to the remaining two of them. "Akana. Would Akana _really_ tell him to stay away from me? It just doesn't seem like her to assume that I can't handle myself." Leliana and Alistair shared a look. "What? It _was_ her! How dare she!"

"Please don't be mad, Shianni," Leliana pleaded. "Zevran... has a very long-"

"-long, long, long, looong-" Alistair added, valuably.

"-history with women."

"And men. Don't forget the men."

Shianni scowled at them, and the expression was very close to the one that Akana often wore. "That doesn't mean she gets to decide for me, or decide for him-"

"Trust me, Shianni," Alistair cut her off. "You don't know this guy. He might be all charming and flattering on the surface, but that's how he got close to his _targets._ He lured them into compromising positions, had sex with them, and then murdered them. Akana knows that-"

"Alistair." Leliana scolded him. Shianni had become a bit paler, eyes widening.

"It's true! You were there, Leliana. He tried to kill _us_."

"That was months ago, Alistair. Akana trusts him, and that's more than enough reason for us to trust him, too."

"Apparently she doesn't trust him with her cousin, does she?"

Well _that_ had come out a rather lot nastier than he'd intended. Suddenly he felt like a jerk, even though he didn't know _why: _it wasn't like he was the one who'd seduced people and then killed them, all for a paycheck.

During the awkward silence that ensured, the two women busied themselves with looking elsewhere, straighting their garments, adjusting their masks. Alistair spent the time wondering about why he could never keep his mouth shut when he should. And wallowing in a tiny bit of self-pity.

"Anyways," Shianni started, looking up at him. "You come dance with me then. There's no one she trusts more, and there's no way you can argue with that."

Alistair coughed, startled. "Me? Oh, you don't want to dance with me. I'll step on your feet and run us into people and- and- and you should dance with Leliana."

Judging by the flush that rose in Leliana's cheeks, the Bard didn't seem to mind the idea. But still, she demurred. "Oh Alistair, I refuse to believe that you were raised in the Chantry and somehow escaped being forced to go to any formal dances. Besides, you need the practice before you dance with Akana."

"And," Shianni added, "this isn't just going to be dancing. This is also going to be me thinking up threats to match whatever ones Akana must have given Zevran. If I'm too late to drive you away from her, I guess I can still extend the cousinly love and scare you from leaving."

"Oh joy, dancing _and _being threatened by a pretty lady. When you put it that way, how can I refuse?"

"That's a dear," Leliana laughed at him, and patted him on the back. Alistair sighed, but he wasn't dreading it so much as he pretended: Shianni was gorgeous, really, and he _did_ need the practice. Besides, since when did he get to spend time with a woman that was completely beyond Zevran's reach? Utterly off-limits?

Well, other than Akana, of course.

_Of course,_ he repeated to himself, firmly.

He bowed formally before the elf woman, extending his palm. "May I have this dance?"

She placed her hand lightly in his; the skin so very soft compared to his love's. "You may."


	15. Surprises: Part 1

**A/N: **And you thought the masquerade was just an excuse for some fluff! Hah! =)

* * *

**Akana**

"_One must never set up a murder. They must happen unexpectedly, as in life."  
- Alfred Hitchcock_

_

* * *

_

"He's good though, right? He's good to you?" Soris lowered his voice, and they talked as they walked across the grand floor. He had his hand placed on her lower back; partly out of familial protectiveness, and also partly to ward off anyone bold enough to ask Akana for a dance. She didn't mind the gesture, though she wasn't sure that it was what was helping keep people at a distance. It would take a lot of nerve to ask a hero for a dance, and the news had circulated rapidly that the Grey Wardens were more or less the only two wearing non-bright colors.

That, coupled with the fact that her mask looked like a drake was pushing up and out of her skull, meant that any hope she might have had for anonymity was easily dashed. As much as she knew the troops respected her, the nobility and the upper echelons of society were another story: they had respect, sure, but there was also an air of fear any time they dealt with her.

They didn't like uncertainty, and why would anyone expect them to? It was always in the interest of those with power to keep that power, and they had a lot more invested in maintaining the status quo than anyone else did, including her. Akana wasn't just an unknown quantity, either. She'd been clear that there were certain changes she expected to be made, and that meant a fresh round of alliance-forming was already well underway. At least no one was stupid enough to directly oppose her. Well, not yet at least. The Archdemon's corpse was practically still warm. Akana didn't expect it to last more than a week, though.

"Of course he is," Akana replied to Soris's question, pulling herself away from thinking about whatever the nobility thought of her. She wasn't terribly interested in trying to change their minds. "What is that even supposed to mean?"

"Well, you know. It's something I have to ask. You don't have a big brother, so I'm the one who has to look out for you. He seems… well, okay, Alistair is great. He's funny, and he treats your dad like he's a King himself. But, he is still, he's still _human,_ Akana."

Akana narrowed her eyes at her cousin: she'd already gotten this speech from Shianni, and Shianni had more of a reason to distrust humans than Soris did. "He's never treated me any differently, that I can tell. If he did, I'd break his nose." _And his heart,_ she added internally, but didn't say aloud. "You don't have to worry."

Soris sighed a little. "I know, I know. I don't think a guy could ask for better for his cousin. It was just… I saw that you're wearing the wedding ring Nelaros gave you, and I thought I should ask."

"Oh," Akana rose one hand, fingers toying with the necklace. "Yeah."

"Can I ask why?"

"I've been wearing it ever since… I mean, I didn't really get to know the guy, but." She bit her bottom lip. "I wanted to remember. The life that was taken from me, I guess. Not just by Vaughn either, but by, heh." Akana half-smiled, half-grimaced. "The Wardens too. I'm not going to forget where I came from, you know?"

"Don't take this the wrong way," Soris started, guiding them through another crowd, which seemed to smoothly part to let them pass. "But I don't think you'd have been happy. Even if things with… even if Vaughn hadn't shown up. I'm not saying your life is perfect now, and gods you know I haven't got a clue how you managed to do everything you did, but you weren't _made_ for a quiet life, were you?"

Akana pondered this a moment, trying to decide if there was a compliment somewhere in there that she should be deflecting. "I guess not, huh?"

Soris smirked, a little sadly, and ruffled the bit of her hair that wasn't ornately pinned. "I love you, cousin. I'm glad you're as crazy as you are."

She made a gagging noise in her throat. "Yeah yeah, I love you too." Soris just laughed it off; he knew her well enough to know that she was being serious underneath the display of insensitivity.

"But now that I've expressed the proper amount of brotherly-like concern over Alistair, there was someone else I wanted to ask about. What's the story with that Zevran guy?"

Akana groaned. "Really? Don't tell me you're taken with him, too." From the look Soris gave her though, one of bewilderment – and then revulsion – she quickly realized that wasn't the case.

"What?! Me? Let's forget that I'm pretty sure he's _male_ for a second – him? If you're going to guess that I play for the home team, cousin, or that I've got eyes for anyone other than Valora, at least give me more credit than that!"

"So you're not a fan?" She arched an eyebrow at him, smiling at his reaction.

"No. And _you're_ not, either, right?" Akana felt his hand stiffen at her back, and she frowned when she looked over at him.

"What?"

"C'mon, Akana. Just answer the question."

"I will, if I know exactly what you're _asking._"

Suddenly the conversation had become strained, and it wasn't that Akana didn't understand what Soris was asking her – she _did_ – but she couldn't believe that he would think he needed to ask it. Was he blind, or stupid, or kind of both? No one else thought there was something between her and Zevran, did they? How utterly _moronic_ did someone need to be-

"You and him, there's nothing, right? I mean, you like him, and he's the only elf that's been travelling with you, but there's _nothing like that_ right?"

Her jaw clenched tightly. "No. And really, what in the fucking Maker's name would make you ask that, Soris? Is there a rumor I need to know about? 'Cause I swear, if I have to-"

"No! No. It's probably my fault, really." Soris held up his hands in a warding gesture. "He said something at the Feast the other night, and I thought-"

"Wait, _Zevran_ said-?!"

"No! No not really. I think he was just trying to mess with my head. I was a little drunk – a lot drunk I guess – and I probably provoked it. My fault. There are no rumors that I know of, Akana. Sorry I brought it up, really, don't worry about it."

"There you are!" A vaguely familiar voice washed over both of them, and they turned to greet it. It took a couple seconds for Akana to recognize the elf woman approaching them under her blue-green mask. Valora, Soris's wife. Akana forced the scowl from her face, smiling instead. "Oh, Akana! A pleasure to see you again! My, your outfit is… it's very _intriguing._" Which wasn't really a compliment, especially not when Valora's voice faltered the way it did, but the Warden didn't mind.

Akana smirked, while Soris left her side to go to his wife. He leaned down to kiss her, and though Akana knew he'd had more than a few doubts about the marriage, they both looked happy together. She felt her fingers tighten around the wedding ring against her collarbone, allowing the small ache of _what could have been_ to pass. Soris was right: she probably wouldn't have been satisfied with that life. But it didn't mean that she wouldn't always feel a distant pang of nostalgia and regret for losing it.

She'd never had a choice; but that seemed to be the case for everyone that history decided to make great, didn't it?

"I'll let you two get to dancing," Akana said, seeing both a momentarily flash of glee and dread cross both of their faces: glee for Valora, dread for Soris.

_Serves him right, asking a stupid question like that._

After a couple brief goodbyes, Akana found herself alone in the ballroom for the first time. She'd had Leliana, or at least one cousin, by her side since she'd come in. Now she felt positively lost in a sea of brightly colored fish. Finding Alistair wasn't really an option, even if he'd looked _incredibly_ touchable in that perfectly tailored suit (and she had wanted nothing more than to see it disheveled and wrinkled, his mask askew after a few knee-weakening, passionate kisses).

Yes, they'd made a deal, but the longer she stood alone and adrift in all of these milling, chattering people, the stronger the urge was to run back to the Templar. It was distressing to realize how much she had grown accustomed to his presence, and how much more comfortable she was when he was around. It was worse than the vulnerability she felt walking around without armor on, and she'd thought _that_ was an alarming development.

Just when she had been about to swallow her pride (_a dance or two won't be that awful, we can hide somewhere after that_), Akana saw someone approach her out of the corner of her eye. And even after staring at the woman walking towards her for a few moments, she _still_ couldn't place her. Which meant that either she was just oddly familiar, or that Akana knew her only well enough that she wouldn't figure it out while the woman was still wearing a mask, and _that_ was going to drive her crazy.

"Good evening, Grey Warden." Any doubt that Akana had about knowing this woman vanished. She definitely recognized the voice, and searched the woman's visible features: human, deep auburn hair, not particularly tall or short. Her dress was a dark crimson color, and so was her beaded mask. Overall, the stranger was rather unremarkable. Except for her voice -- it was melodious, somehow entrancing, and it itched at her subconscious.

"You have me at a disadvantage," Akana replied, smiling out of reflex more than out of goodwill. "I'd recognize you, but not with the mask I'm afraid."

"I don't blame you," the womanly replied evenly, her painted lips curling upwards. "We only met once before, Lady Tabris, and we did not exactly exchange pleasantries."

Akana narrowed her eyes: a flash of a memory, all coated in blood and horror and rage. But then it was gone again, and it was too hard to know that it really was related to this woman. So she didn't act on it -- even if she wanted to, what could she do, really?

"Honor me with a short dance, Lady Tabris? The Ladies' Court will begin soon, and if it is not too presumptuous, I would very much like to speak with you afterwards."

"...you want me to dance with you?"

"Is that a problem?" The stranger's voice was filled with confidence, velvety smooth, that much was sure.

"Well, I've been trying to avoid it. It's why I'm all over here on my lonesome, in fact."

"I had thought that might be the case. However, I could not forgo the opportunity when I saw that you were without an entourage." The music changed, and the men that had been dancing slowly made their way out from the center of the ballroom. The ladies' dance was beginning. If Akana had to break down and submit herself to one of these dances, she certainly hadn't expected it to be to this one. The woman extended her palm to Akana, her skin creamy pale. "Shall we?"

"You're persistent. And pretty bold, too."

"Yes. You'll find that about me."

Well, at least Akana's boredom was cured. She took the mysterious woman's hand. As they moved towards the main floor of the ballroom, Akana spotted Alistair stepping aside with Shianni. He caught Akana's gaze, and pointed at the stranger beside her, clearly confused. Akana shrugged in reply.

The dance wasn't awful; it was pretty bad, or at least pretty unproductive as far as Akana was concerned, but it wasn't embarrassing. The stranger would tell her all the upcoming moves in a low voice, and with those instructions plus being quick on her feet, Akana managed to keep from looking like a complete fool. All the while she tried desperately to remember where she knew this woman from, but each time she came up blank. The only time she'd even really been around noble women would in Denerim, but this woman wasn't like the other nobility they'd met.

As the music began to peter out, switching to another song, the woman backed away from Akana. Her smile wasn't as cryptic now, be seemed genuine -- sad, too, in a way. "Forgive me for asking so much, Lady Tabris. You were more than merciful when you spared my life, and I wished only to experience what it might feel like to have your respect, for however short a time."

Spared her life -- not _saved_, which a lot of people were thanking her for recently.

Then it came to her: the voice, the pale skin, the blood. All of the blood.


	16. Surprises: Part 2

**A/N: **To the two non-account reviewers for last chapter (anon and whiteshade): thanks for the reviews! Very appreciated! And I am a meanie, indeed. =)

* * *

**Akana**

"_One must never set up a murder. They must happen unexpectedly, as in life."  
- Alfred Hitchcock_

_

* * *

  
_

Akana was taken back, back to the Tower, back to a room filled with the acrid smell of blood on magic on blood.

_ - - - - -_

"Everyone deserves a second chance." Leliana said, voice quiet.

"No! What? No! You can't trust her! She's a Blood Mage, Akana! Letting Jowan go wasn't enough for you? Are you, like, on a personal quest to free all the evil mages you find?" Alistair was incredulous, but not really any opposition. Everyone knew he'd do whatever Akana said.

"You -- _Jowan?_ You've met Jowan, and helped him?!" Wynne, the old Mage she'd met before at Ostagar. A kind woman, but her mouth drew into a thin line now. "You must not allow this traitor to live, Grey Warden. She deserves no less than death, for all the destruction she's been a part of."

"She lives."

"I cannot allow this!" The elderly woman again. Akana stared at her for a long while, and both Alistair and Leliana went silent.

"I told the Templars I was coming in here to kill abominations, Wynne. Is this woman an abomination?"

"She is something worse, a Mali-"

"Is. She. An. Abomination?"

A long pause. The tenuous ties of honor and morality and obligation that held their group together threatened to unravel.

"No," Wynne finally answered.

"That's what I thought. I'll kill people who offer me no choice but to kill or be killed, sure. But I'm _not_ here just to murder mages. I'm not here to do anyone's dirty work, whether that's yours or Irving's or Greagoir's. You want to get some indiscriminate killers in here? Fine. Then I'm leaving. The Templars are more than capable of cutting through mage and abomination and Maleficarum alike, without question. So what'll it be? Cause I'm going to tell you right now, Wynne, I'm the last hope you have of saving any sane mages left in this Tower."

Wynne, was cross -- the crossest Akana had ever seen her -- but she also looked impressed underneath it all. "Let's carry on then."

"Swell." Then, Akana turned to the woman lying crumpled on the floor. A woman with pale skin and dark brown hair and hooded eyes. "Get out of here."

- - - - -

"You!" Akana withdrew from the woman, not out of fear or malice but in sheer surprise. "Gods, when I said you were bold I was apparently horribly mistaken, you're _crazy_ for being here, with all these people-"

"Please," the woman raised her hands, palms towards Akana. Not a threatening gesture at all, and Akana forced herself into stillness. "Please keep your voice down."

She lowered her voice, but the words still came out in a hiss. "You think that I let you go from the Tower so that you could what, socialize? I didn't give you your gods-damned life and liberty so that you could be seen in public and be taken right back to that _place, _probably dragging my name through the mud with you all the way there_._"

The woman was shamed, and lowered her eyes. "I did not know any other way to approach you, and a masquerade offered a chance to do so discreetly, on both our parts. I wanted to thank you, Lady Tabris. More importantly, I wanted to let you know what I _have_ been doing with my life, and it has not all been socializing, I promise you."

"What's your name?" Akana practically barked at the woman. The Blood Mage blinked a few times, before answering.

"Syl."

"Syl what?"

"Sylvia Vannero. I go by Syl Dareon now."

"Okay." Akana glared at the woman, irritated that she was without her armor and her swords. Even if she knew better than to use them, having them always put her at ease. That was the thing about mages. They carried their weapons with them even when they were as naked as the day they were born, damn them. "I'm going to assume that you haven't got some bizarre deathwish, and that you really do have a good reason for seeking me out. So sure. Tell me what's new in the world of an exiled Blood-" Syl cringed, and Akana instinctively hushed her voice. "An Apostate. Make it quick."

"Right. Well," Syl looked to each side of them, but no one was paying them all that much mind. If she spoke in a normal tone, or slightly below that, someone would have to strain their ears to hear any of it over the din of the Ball. And by that point it would be obvious that they were being watched. "We've taken refuge-"

Akana already interrupted her, holding up a hand. "We?"

"Yes. I was not the only revolter to escape, and we have had... sympathizers outside of the Tower for some time." She looked ready to explain more, but Akana waved her to go on. "We've taken refuge in Denerim, those of us who are least recognizable and don't run as high a risk in being caught. We have been gathering support where we can, and though I won't mention names, we have at least one noble house behind our cause."

"Which is?" Akana didn't modulate the cynicism in her tone: you didn't come as far as she had without knowing when someone wanted something from you. And though she _did_ feel a great deal of empathy for the mages trapped in the Tower's traditions (and the Templars, too), generally with little choice in the matter, she wasn't about to forget just what the woman in front of her was capable of. Akana'd had her blood boiled inside of her veins by mages of this path, and that excruciating experience alone was enough to give her pause.

"We want a choice." The firmness of Syl's tone made her arch an eyebrow. "I _know_ that you are no fan of forced servitude, Lady Tabris. I also remember quite clearly, when I was begging for my life, that you-" The woman smiled, looked away for a moment, but kept on anyway. _Damn_ but did she have guts. "-you bared your teeth to one of the most respected mages in the Circle."

"I'm cheeky like that. It's probably gotten me into more trouble than out of it."

"Undoubtedly," Syl replied politely. Akana shifted her weight, and felt her ire dissipating. _This_ is what got her into messy situations. She found herself automatically drawn to people who she thought were being level with her, even if they were Bad People. It was what had made her friendship -- if you would call it that, and she would -- with Morrigan possible. "I do not wish to generalize and try to compare the plight of the Alienage elves to the fate of the mages, but-"

"But you figure that since I'm an elf, and we're kept in a slum, and the mages are kept in a Tower, that maybe we've got similar perspectives."

"I would not _assume_ your support, Lady Tabris-"

"Oh please," Akana rolled her eyes. If Syl had the courtesy to treat her as an equal, then Akana would return the favor. "You already have. If you didn't think I hated the very _idea_ of locking innocents up, you wouldn't have dared to let me see you again. Not, of course, that _you're_ innocent. You aren't."

"No." She agreed, with that same polite smile.

"Yeah, well, neither am I. And you were at least partially right in your assumption. The thought of marching kids into a stone dungeon and then having guards breathing down their necks for the rest of their life, or the _Tranquil_ thing alone-" Syl's eyebrows rose, and Akana calmed herself. "You're right. I hate it. I hate everything about it. And, I know Wynne would probably keel over on the spot if she heard me say it, but I don't blame any of you. You wanted out. Who wouldn't? You cage a bunch of beasts, and maybe you can tame most of them, beat them until they don't even look out from between the bars anymore -- but you'll get a few who will still fight fang and claw for freedom."

The Blood Mage was silent, as if she didn't want to speak and ruin the moment. Akana hadn't meant to be so vocal about it all, but freedom was damned important to her. She couldn't help it, really.

"Anyway, I'm done preaching. Sure, I think the system is bullshit. But even helping the elves isn't easy, and no one suspects that they're gonna be making pacts with demons and blowing cities off the face of Ferelden. What do _you_ want from me?"

"Nothing, for now. You are entirely correct that you have your hands full, Lady Tabris. And trust me when I say that we shall stand behind your efforts to free the Alienage. Injustice anywhere is a dishonor to us all."

"Oh? Concerned with honor, are you?"

"Always, my Lady. And the unreasonable obstruction of autonomy is the worst offense. To murder is less grave than to be complicit in slavery."

"Fair enough. But really, you don't want anything from me? I find that hard to believe."

Syl smiled at her. "Just to know that we have the goodwill of Ferelden's Hero is a blessing in itself, Lady Tabris. It bolsters the hearts and minds of those who might otherwise falter under the depressing reality of the situation. We are seeking peaceful solutions where they exist, and your support, though we would not ask you to voice it publicly -- especially not while you have other priorities -- will keep the less disciplined among us from despairing."

"And trying to destroy the Tower."

"Violence is one symptom of hopelessness, yes."

"Tell me about it. So I don't have to, what, sign a contract? Pen my name in blood upon parchment made from the flesh of babes?" The Blood Mage looked horrified for a second before realizing that Akana was joking with her.

"It is not recommended." Then, with a creeping smile, allowing herself to take part in the humor, she added: "And parchment stripped from the backs of virgins is more of the standard practice -- one obtains more material that way."

"Good to know. Would have to find some virgins first, though. If there are any left, after the Feast."

"I'm glad we could discuss this, Lady Tabris. You are," Akana watched her search for the words. "Impressive and unexpectedly sensible." The Warden felt a shiver spread across her arms and neck, all the hairs standing on end for a moment of deja vu.

"You're not the first evil mage to tell me that." _Sensible_. That's the word that Morrigan had used.

"And should our efforts succeed, I'm sure that I will not be the last. Truly, Lady Tab-"

"Akana, just call me Akana."

"All right. Akana," the Blood Mage seemed to try out the name, probably finding it a little uncomfortable to be so informal, "I cannot fully express my gratitude. The compassion you showed me, and to those like Jowan -- Maker keep him -- is something that many of us had forgotten was possible from anyone outside our own circles. Never has anyone brought so much hope to those in the most need of it."

Akana opened her mouth to argue, or at least crack a joke -- _Why yes, I'm like Andraste really, only for criminal Blood Mage Apostates --_ but just then someone passed close to her, so close that it was an invasion of personal space. As she turned to look at them, she saw Syl's eyes narrow, also noticing the intruder.

"For Teryn Loghain," a voice whispered in her ear, breath humid on her neck, and then something cold, ice cold, bit deep between two of the ribs on her right side.

The blade was so sharp that she didn't even feel the cut, only the sudden iciness. Which was followed by a spreading warmth: her blood spilling down, running too fast, seeping into her boot as she stood there.

Akana tried to turn, to face her attacker, to make him -- it'd been a male voice -- regret the day he was born, but something was wrong. Her limbs wouldn't listen to her, and instead of spinning, she fell, legs all tangled in each other. She slipped in her own blood, and now it wasn't cold that she felt, but fire, fire all over her, searing through her, spouting out of the puncture in her side. _Poison._ She'd been stabbed before, and this was _nothing_ like that.

"...damn," she breathed, barely feeling the hard marble floor when it rushed up to meet her.


	17. More Than a Feeling

**A/N:** Okay, it might not resolve the cliffhanger, but I have a biiig project due tomorrow. Otherwise I might be a little more merciful and edit/toss up the next chapter as well. That said, new content tomorrow!

Aaand the narrative will be someone new. ;)

* * *

**Zevran**

_"We might lose without fighting. That would be a new experience for me."  
- Lucifer Morningstar, Lucifer_

_

* * *

  
_

He couldn't shake it. He'd been feeling it ever since the tiny spat with Alistair, and the gnawing sensation in his gut had only grown stronger since then.

_You're being paranoid,_ Zevran tried to reason with himself. It was true, too, but paranoia was a trait that had kept him alive. That, and heaps upon heaps of luck. At first he'd thought it was just the crowded room, the insectoid hum of hundreds of people rubbing elbows that was making him uneasy. It was a thing he'd noticed even before the Feast: when he was alone, crowds didn't bother him. They'd never been much of a problem before; in fact, he'd used them to his advantage on more than one occasion.

But ever since travelling with Akana -- especially now, when she wasn't always flanked by at least two of them, fully armored as well -- he had grown to hate people-filled areas. His training as an Assassin meant that he noticed all the convenient places to hide a weapon, or just how easy it'd be to deliver a fatal blow and escape before anyone even noticed something was wrong. It made him testy, and an Assassin with itching fingers was no small liability.

Sirens were screaming in his head. He'd been halfway into his usual seduction method with a stunning upper-class merchant woman (and her husband) when it had happened. From the corners of his eye, he'd seen something. Zevran wasn't sure what it'd been: the flash of a bit of steel, or the sweeping steps of a killer approaching an unsuspecting target, maybe. But he'd seen something, and he left the conversation without so much as a goodbye.

Now he was straining his eyes, pouring through the mob of people, willing himself to catch another glimpse. But there were too many of them, too many oblivious party-goers all herding together like cattle. Damn them.

He caught sight of Alistair, though, and while still keeping an eye on the main crowd, pushed his way over to the Templar. Alistair was stilling talking with Shianni, and Zevran made no attempts to politely insert himself.

"Something is about to happen," Zevran interrupted. The look Alistair gave him was one of disgust more than alarm, and Zevran wanted to swipe it off of his face -- but he wasn't about to stop looking long enough to do it.

"What are you talking about?" Alistair asked, belligerent. Shianni was silent, listening to them both, probably wondering if she should excuse herself.

"I saw something. Where's Akana?"

"I'm not sure -- she got pulled into the Ladies' Dance by some stranger, last I saw." Then Alistair seemed to realize what the Assassin was suggesting, and his voice became more appropriately concerned. "Wait, what do you mean? What did you see?"

"I don't know. Something. We need to find her." For a moment it seemed like Alistair might argue with him, if only for the principle of it, but he didn't. _He has that much sense, at least_, Zevran thought. That taken care of, he turned his full attention into trying to find Akana. It didn't help that she wasn't a tall woman, even by elven standards. Zevran wouldn't have called her _short_ though, mostly because he liked his face the way it was, and his desire to have it forcibly rearranged wasn't particularly great.

"All right," Alistair agreed, and then pushed himself up onto his toes. Alistair, on the other hand, _was_ tall, and stood easily a head over the average elf, and a few inches taller than most humans. It didn't take him long to spot her. "There, she's just talking to that woman right now." He jerked his head in the direction, and Zevran could only just see Akana -- she passed in and out of his vision as people moved between them. "She seems fine. You're sure about this?"

Zevran felt his conviction waver slightly. Perhaps he was just losing his edge. Maybe the crowd was throwing him off. If Akana was engaged in something, maybe it would be best not to disturb-

Then he saw it.

The man shifting his weight the slightest bit, the very tip of a dagger extending from his cuff. Zevran didn't even think: he took off at a sprint, roughly shoving lord and lady alike aside as he made his way to her. But in his heart, he already knew the truth.

Too much distance.

Too many people between here and there.

_Too late._

By Andraste's merciful hand_,_ he would never forgive himself.


	18. The Valley

**A/N**:Thank you to last chapter's anon reviewer! I'm not sure how much cliff-hangery this chapter really alleviates, but I will say that this is a turning point for this fiction. It's kind of silly, seeing how it took 50k+ words to get here, but this should give a taste for the things in store. Gonna start branching away from simply doing reactions to the end of the game, and get into the meat of a story. A scary plunge for me. ;)

But without further ado, let's get the chapter rolling!

* * *

**Syl**

_Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…  
- Psalms, 23:4_

_

* * *

  
_

It too her a moment to realize what had happened. The Grey Warden was already lying in a growing pool of her own blood before Syl could do anything -- she looked up to see the assassin, now holding a bloody blade. He was wearing a mask just like any of the rest of them, and his clothing didn't even have a drop of spilled blood on it. At least, not until Lady Tabris's blood reached his boots.

"For Loghain," the man shouted. "For the true Hero of Ferelden!" And then he raised the dagger to his own throat.

But Syl had recovered by then, and she reacted: that's the only way she could think of it. _Reacting._ Later, she would consider the choices she had then, the way things might have gone: but she would be a fool to think that it could have ever been different.

"I despise martyrs," she hissed from her teeth, followed shortly by the command words of the spell. Pain shot through her body, just as it always did when the Blood Magic began. But it was _nothing_ compared to what this man was about to feel.

His limbs instantly froze, the dagger inches from his throat. He tried to cry out, but his lungs were no longer his own; his entire _body _was no longer his own. He rose into the air, the power of the spell lifting him off of his feet. The man's throat worked, gurgling in agony as his blood turned against him, veins and arteries and capillaries swelling. His heart too: Syl could practically hear it beating in her mind, panicking as it grew heavier and heavier, expanding beyond its limit.

And she could have made it _pop_, too. Not unlike an over-ripened fruit, or the gas-filled belly of a corpse. But she restrained herself: no, he would _not_ be a martyr. So she took him there, to the very cusp of obliteration, and held.

Without breaking the spell, Syl looked down at the Warden. For a mage who knew quite a bit of the properties of blood, she marveled at how _much_ of it there was underfoot, and all from the small elf woman lying there. She bled as if the wound had been delivered by a war-axe, not a four-inch blade. There was no way that someone could lose that much blood and-

_No, no, a Grey Warden, _this _Grey Warden must not die so. It is so... so unworthy of her_.

And just as she released the spell over the assassin, another man broke through the now screaming, scattering crowd. He was an elf, and Syl recognized him as the Antivan Crow that had been one of Lady Tabris's companions. Without slowing he took one look at the unconscious body of the attacker, one look over at Syl, and continued on to the Warden's side. His boots slid in her blood, and he caught himself with remarkable grace, before dropping to his knees. The blood seeped into his expensive clothing, wicking up the fabric.

Less than a heartbeat later, and with less precise grace, Grey Warden Alistair joined them.

"Maker, oh Maker, what happened?" He knelt beside Zevran, not even bothering to check the body next to him or the only person not running in fear. "So much blood -- it's like she lost a gods-damned _arm_- WYNNE! Maker, SOMEONE GET WYNNE! SHIANNI! GET WYNNE!" The bellow was deafening: the cry of a practiced Champion. The call for the healer was echoed throughout the Hall as the general pandemonium began to subside into nail-biting horror.

"It's a small cut, but deep," Zevran replied, his voice deadened. Though he'd pulled the woman into his lap, the other Grey Warden scooped her away from him. Zevran allowed him to do so, inspecting the dagger. "It's not possible," the elf murmured under his breath.

As the crowd began to form, horseshoeing around them, Syl could already hear the whispers: _Blood Mage_, they kept saying. _An assassin, and a Blood Mage. Working together? Maker -- that couldn't be -- was that the Grey Warden?_ Only then they weren't whispers, and the clank of the royal guard's boots was growing nearer.

"Akana? Akana? Love, say something, it'll be okay, it's just a cut, you'll be okay, Wynne will be here soon," Alistair tried to sway her side to side, but the woman wasn't very responsive: her eyes had rolled into her skull, and trickles of blood were running not just from the corners of her mouth, but dear _Maker_, her eyes, her nose, her ears- "WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT MAGE? GET ME WYNNE!" He roared again, and then turned back to his lover with the same gentle voice as before.

"Maker!" A shriek from behind her, and Syl saw the Bard run past her. "Alistair, move, we need to stop the bleeding-" She began ripping her dress to shreds to make bandages. "Zevran, don't just sit there, help or get out of the damned way!"

The blonde elf _had_ be frozen, doing nothing but staring at the dagger, expression glassy-eyed and distant. But he did move then, and before Syl knew it -- everything seemed to be going so _fast_, how could any of them even keep up? -- Zevran was at her side. He pulled her roughly to him, leaving a dark and warm-wet handprint on her arm.

"I didn't-" Syl began, but then she realized that he wasn't attacking her, he was moving her behind him, and just in time: the guards had shoved through the crowd, and all fingers were pointed at her. Zevran stood between them and her.

Of course Syl had wondered what it would be like to travel with Akana. Who _hadn't_, young or old, mage or soldier, noble or peasant? It was well-known that she'd had an Apostate amongst her company, and that she took in companions based on their merit, not on their status or history. And now, as horrific as the circumstances were, she realized that this was what it was like: to have someone who would throw themselves in front of swordpoint to defend you, wordlessly, without hesitation. Gods, if only the situation didn't warrant it.

"Stand aside!" The guards barked, but Zevran held his ground. "That's a Blood Mage you're protecting, boy!"

Boy? Of course. Because he was an elf -- how _dare_ they speak to one of Akana's company that way?

"Come one step closer," the elf snarled: he'd produced another blade, from where Syl couldn't say, and held them both in a pre-striking position. "And you'll get a taste of the poison that's killing the Hero of Ferelden. I assure you, it'll make quicker work of you than her."

That gave them pause, and Syl looked down at Lady Tabris, her heart beating so hard that it felt like a bird caught in her throat. Killing her? And yes, it was true: the blood loss was beyond repair now. Her skin had gone bleach-white, dark circles forming under her eyes. Underneath the metallic sheen of her lipstick, her lips were blue. The only sign of life left in her was the tiny movements of her mouth.

The Bard pressed her ear to the dying Warden's lips. "Who is Daveth? Or Jory?" The confusion and fear made her eyes wide. Alistair let out an almost inhuman howl of agony, pushing his hands to his fellow Warden's wound, trying to stop the last of Akana's blood from draining from her body. "Wynne, we need Wynne- oh _Maker_, Alistair, Alistair _talk_ to her, she's not going to- she's-" And the sob that came up in the Bard's throat made it impossible for her to finish.

This also seemed to remind the guardsman of his purpose: "You threaten the Captain of the Royal Guard, _elf._ Stand down, I say!"

"If you want the Blood Mage, you come through _me._ I might not be able to kill you before your men take me down, but this poison will _certainly_ get the job finished." Zevran's lips were pulled back so far that it might almost look like a grin, if one didn't know better.

"You threaten the Royal Guard!"

The Crow didn't respond to that, only held his footing, braced.

"I can help," and it wasn't until the words were out of her mouth that Syl realized it was true. Or, that at this point, if she didn't try then the Grey Warden was as good as dead anyway. "I can help," she repeated, louder, and turned her back to the guard. If they came for her, then they came for her: right now she had more important things to worry about.

Alistair and Leliana looked at her skeptically, but only for a moment. "Do whatever you can," Alistair told her. "I don't care what it takes." And the way he said it, she knew that he'd seen what she'd done to the assassin, and that he knew she was a Blood Mage.

Syl nodded, and pulled out the two pins that had been holding her dark hair in a bun. The tips were razorsharp. Not much defense against swords by themselves, but...

She drove the first one into -- and through -- her right palm. Letting out a sharp cry, willing herself to stay conscious through the pain, she hastily mirrored the action with the other hand. The second stab was sloppier than the first, as the muscles in her injured hand spasmed. Now, with the two long metal pins driven clean through the meat of her palms, Syl stood, fingers twitching uncontrollably. It took her a moment to catch her breath.

"STOP! Stop her!" The Captain of the Royal guard shouted.

"Touch the mage and _I WILL KILL YOU ALL_." Only it wasn't Zevran doing the threatening: it was Alistair, and he had authority that the elf did not. The only sound in the room was the panting of fear and anxiety now -- it was the first time most of the people assembled had even seen an Apostate, let alone a Maleficar. Blood Magic? It was likely that only Akana's companions had witnessed such a thing. "Don't you _dare_ touch her." Alistair continued to snarl, face contorted into a mask of terrified rage, commanding even while he was on his knees, hunched over his love's body. Then those wild eyes turned on Syl, and she had to fight not to cower before them.

_Templar!_ Every fiber of her being screamed. And she could feel it, as her power mounted, as she gave herself over to it. Templars could sense mages, but mages could also sense Templars, just as a rabbit knew the shadow of a hawk. "Do it." An order.

Syl responded not with words, but with the spell: she rose her pierced hands at her sides, taking in the physical pain and putting it to use. She felt out for Lady Tabris, could taste her blood in the air now -- and it was strange indeed, tainted, sure, but more than that -- and honed in on her. She wrapped herself like a shadow around the woman's dying mind, and plunged into death alongside the Warden.

_"You always called me a coward," a tall, balding man in chainmail complained, arms crossed. Ser Jory. Syl only knew it because Akana knew it, and here Syl stood with her. The elf woman looked over to the newcomer, as did the two men she was speaking to. No one acknowledged her more than that though: they went right on with their conversation._

_"Don't be a dimwit, Jory. You _were_ a coward," the other man replied, smirking. His name was Daveth. "And compared to Akana, anyway, pretty much everyone's a coward. She beat the Blight, didn't you know it?"_

_"I know," Ser Joy sighed._

_"And besides, look on the brightside: we would have bitten the dust soon after anyway. Ostagar was lost."_

_"You could have taken my place," Akana said, the first time Syl heard her speak. "Maybe one of you would have been at the Tower -- or both of you, instead of me and Alistair. Then you would have been the ones to beat the Blight."_

_"Don't be silly," Daveth responded, shaking his head. "Jory and I were never meant to do that. We were meant to die the night you were born. You're the Hero."_

_"I don't feel like a hero," Akana looked down at her boots, all clad in ceremonial armor. "I was a coward, too. It just took me longer."_

_"You will not have to worry about that any more," Ser Jory said kindly, and offered his hand. "Where we're going, no one cares if you're a coward."_

_Daveth extended his own hand as well. "He's right. Leave it be -- come take a break. You've earned it."_

_Akana reached out, with both of her hands, and then hesitated. She looked over her shoulder into the black nothingness, and her brow furrowed. "But Alistair-"_

_"You will see him again," Ser Jory assured her._

_"Oh." Slowly, Akana's frown faded into a softer look of confusion. "But I thought I heard him..."_

_"We'll wait for him, together." Daveth smiled. "Best thing about Grey Wardens: you never have to wait too long."_

_She turned back to face them, and nodded. "All right. Let's go then." And she rose her hands and-_

"NO!" Syl shouted, roughly seizing Akana's consciousness. It couldn't be a pleasant experience -- like being pulled too quickly from a deep sleep, only a thousand times moreso -- but Syl didn't let go. Akana shoved back weakly, but she was in no state to fight, and particularly not in a battle of mental willpower with a mage. Holding Akana trapped there, in her mind, Syl began to work with the blood. It would have been no good to try her piss-poor healing skills first: Akana's spirit would have slipped out from the weak body by the time Syl had managed to close up the wound.

She knew it wasn't how real healers did it. There was an art to it, speeding up the body's natural mending capabilities. But she did it as she knew best; and in the only way that might have worked, given the woman's blood loss. Slowly, not knowing whether it would do any good, she directed the Grey Warden's blood _back_ into her body.

And, sure enough, Syl saw as the dark pool around the two Wardens began to shrink. It left stains and a thin film of red over everything, but most of it was returning to her body. As the blood moved backwards, crawling up and into Akana's veins, color began to return to her face. The low, weak rasp of her breath became stronger, and then she began to cough, and gasp, and sneeze, all of which resulted in a fine spray of blood coating both Alistair and Leliana. Neither of them seemed to mind.

When she'd gathered back all the blood she could, Syl finished the Blood Magic off with a healing spell -- she _knew_ a couple, they just hardly got any practice -- to close the knife wound. Then, with a silent apology, she released the rest of the woman's consciousness back into her body. Akana's eyes opened almost immediately, the whites tinted dark red, like some sort of monster.

The spell finished, Syl was suddenly overcome with weariness, and swayed on her feet. Methodically, she retrieved the hair pins from her hands. Alistair pressed his lips to Akana's forehead, murmured an _I-love-you-stay-here_, and allowed Leliana to take the Warden into her lap. He stood, and walked towards Syl, his boots leaving bloody prints on the marble. "Thank you," he said roughly, but sincerely. "We'll handle this."

And then Alistair looked at her more closely, as if trying to look under the mask. "Do I know you?"

"She let me go. In the Tower, when you three were there. I was one of the Blood Mages. She let me go."

Alistair blinked, processed this, and then looked back up at her. "Well then, I'm glad she did." With that, he moved past her, standing with Zevran. Now there were two of them between the guards and her, and Akana was trying to get to her feet despite Leliana's protests.

"I didn't know Blood Mages could do that," someone whispered, and Syl realized it had been one of the guards. The Captain gave him an ice-cold look, and he fell silent.

"The Blood Mage is coming with us," he said, obviously relieved to see Grey Warden Akana Tabris alive. Not that he seemed eager to deal with Zevran or Alistair, but with her alive, the two men could be reasoned with. If she'd died, it was impossible to predict how they'd react.

"Blood Mage or not," Alistair said, standing tall and broad. "That woman just saved the life of a Grey Warden, and your country's hero. So no, she's not going anywhere with you until we get this sorted out."

And now, with things settling, a different and more familiar fear started to churn in Syl's stomach. It was only a matter of time now. There would be no escaping this. They'd figure it out and they'd _take her back._

"No..." she whispered, shaking her head and backing away from the guards.

_No way out._

And then, amongst the guards, Queen Anora herself appeared. "Your Majesty, it isn't _safe,_" her personal bodyguard insisted, but the Queen made her way through the ranks in spite of him. She stopped next to the Captain of the Royal Guard, and stared at Alistair and Zevran, who stared back.

"What's going on here?" She demanded, hands on her hips. Her dress was so intricately worked that it was downright _confusing_ too look at, all gold and white and pink and blue, with a mask that was even _more _decorated. The Queen pulled the mask off, at least, and held it tightly in one hand.

That was when the crowds parted, revealing the newly-made noble Lady Shianni Tabris, followed shortly by the one of the last people in all of Thedas who Syl wanted to see.

Wynne.

_It could be worse_, _right? It could be worse, it could be worse, it could be-_

Behind Wynne was... all-too familiar armor, a crest that'd been burned into her worst nightmares, a scowl she couldn't forget if she tried: Greagoir.


	19. Big Guns

**A/N:** I think this update makes _The Shape of Things to Come_ the longest, word-for-word, fanfic up on the Dragon Age: Origins board. Not that quantity is a measure of quality or anything, but an interesting factoid for you folks!

* * *

**Leliana**

_You ain't never had a friend like me.  
– Genie, Aladdin_

* * *

"What's happened?" Akana struggled in Leliana's arms, trying to right herself but her boots were unable to gain any purchase on the still-wet marble. "Let me up."

"No, Akana, please. We don't know if you're propery healed." Leliana tightened her grip, but she knew it wouldn't mean much for very long -- there was no question that if the warrior wanted to get up, she'd get up, whether or not Leliana tried to stop her. "Please, look, Wynne is coming now."

"All I remember is getting stabbed. What happened to that guy? Is he dead? I remember blood. A _lot_ of blood."

"He's not dead, I don't think. He's unconscious though."

Akana cursed, and then Leliana saw her spot the Blood Mage. The already pale woman seemed to have gone even whiter, and they could see her bleeding hands trembling in fear. "Syl," Akana called out to her. It took the Bard a moment to realize that must be her name. How Akana knew it, she had no idea. The mage turned to them, her eyes round as Soveriegns in fear beneath her red mask.

"Syl," Akana repeated, beckoned, and the Blood Mage approached them, but stopped a couple feet away. "It's okay. Trust me. It's okay. You were in my head, weren't you?"

Leliana looked between them: it had been clear that the woman had saved Akana's life, though _how_ she'd done it -- other than putting her blood back into her body -- was beyond her. But the Bard knew that whatever this Blood Mage had done, Akana wouldn't forget it. Which added one more person to Akana's list of people that needed protecting: Leliana, having been counted among that number, could hardly malign the intention. But even so, she had to admit, protecting a hunted Bard or a rogue Antivan Crow was still nothing compared to what it was going to take to defend a Blood Mage.

However, if anyone could do it...

"Y-yes. Yes. You-" Her voice faltered, and both Akana and Leliana followed her gaze: Wynne was approaching. And it looked like the Knight-Commander of the Templars was as well.

"Don't look at them," Akana said, and Leliana tightened her fingers around the warrior's biceps, bracing herself. This was about to get many entire _shades_ of ugly. "Don't look at them. Look at me. Come here."

Syl glanced at Akana, then back to the impending doom that was walking towards her, and then her eyes scanned for an exit. "Don't you dare," Akana demanded, voice low without being threatening. "Come here. Do it." Though she swallowed hard, Syl listened, and came over to kneel by Akana. "You saved my life, right?"

"I-"

"Yes or no."

"Yes."

"And I saved whatever's left of the Circle. They owe me." Leliana was sure it didn't work like that, and even Akana couldn't be that naive, but she didn't say anything contrary. There was the tiny detail of the fact that the Blood Mages had _caused_ or at least _invited in_ most of the destruction at the Tower. Which was another bit of information she didn't mention.

"I can't go back there," Syl whispered, voice on the edge of hysteria. "I can't go back, Lady Tabris. I can't. I _won't._ I'll do anything, you must understand me." A dangerous glint passed over her eyes, and Leliana felt Akana try to push herself into more of a sitting position.

"If you hurt anyone, Syl, it's over. I'm not going to stand between them and you if you bug out and start popping people like blood-blisters. Stay calm." Akana reached forward, and grasped the Blood Mage's hands in her own, stilling her shaking. Leliana felt both a surge of respect for her friend, but also uneasiness. She was getting in over her head, and there would be no way to talk her out of it: once Akana felt that someone was hers to protect, she'd _never_ back down. "Stay _calm._ Trust me. Okay?"

The panic in Syl's eyes did not pass, but she nodded, tone withdrawing from the very cusp of chaos. "I will die before I go back, Warden. They'll force me to betray everything, everyone -- and then, if I'm lucky, they'll kill me. If not, they'll make me Tranquil. I will _die_ first."

"I understand. Just don't hurt anyone." Leliana felt Akana's arms tense as she gave the woman's hands a squeeze. Maker, how did she do it? She'd just returned from the jaws of death not minutes before, and already she was trying to lend out her strength. The Bard gently brushed some of Akana's hair back, a couple locks that had fallen free from one of her pins. "Stay back," she instructed, before gathering her feet under herself, legs moving awkwardly within the dress, completely disregarding any sense of propriety. "Leliana, help me stand up, okay?"

"Akana..."

"Just do it." Well, if she was irritable, Leliana couldn't _really_ blame her. So the Bard did help her up: resisting would be an exercise in futility anyway. It was strange to feel Akana leaning heavily at her side. She'd seen the woman do this with Alistair from time to time, namely after a particularly nasty fight, before Wynne could tend to her. But it was different to actually feel the woman's dependence in such a physical way; for the first time it seemed like she was realizing how _mortal_ Akana was. That she'd survived that assassination attempt, Blood Magic or no, was unbelievable. These were not thoughts that Leliana liked to dwell on; how much more pleasant it was to believe that Akana was made out of different stuff then all of them, something indestructible.

"Stand _down_ damn you!" The Captain of the Royal guard ordered again, and once again neither Zevran or Alistair moved. They might not have been armored, and they only had two blades between them (both in Zevran's hands, though he'd lowered the weapons immediately upon seeing the Queen), but they didn't seem at all concerned about the swords brandished in their direction.

"You cannot _think_ to harbor a Blood Mage in my court, Alistair. Stop this foolishness and let my men pass."

"Pick on someone your own size," Akana grumbled, and with that simple statement she had the attention of everyone gathered. Leliana felt heat rise in her cheeks at just being so _close_ to the person upon whom so many hostile eyes were trained. "Your Majesty," she added, none too respectfully.

"Grey Warden Tabris, it's a relief to see that the assassination attempt was unsuccessful," and to the Queen's credit, she did seem quite relieved. Then again, it would be plenty damaging to her reputation and political power if the Hero of Ferelden was murdered at one of her Balls.

"It would have been, if it weren't for this woman," Akana replied, gesturing with one hand to Syl.

"Be that as it may, I-"

"No man or woman may stand between a Maleficar and justice." Greagoir's voice cut through them, and though he did not stand with the Queen or her guard directly, he stepped forward. Akana twisted in Leliana's grasp, turning the two of them so that they blocked him. Wynne stood beside Greagoir, her brow deeply etched with worry.

"Akana, you're still hurt, let me-"

But Akana held up a hand, and even the healer stopped. Leliana didn't like this at _all._ Wynne was one of them, they could trust her, they always _had_ trusted her: but Akana was treating her like someone else. And yet, though she hated to see it, part of her couldn't help but remember how Wynne had reacted when they'd let that one Blood Mage free from the Tower. A Blood Mage who actually looked quite similar to-

"_Maker's breath,_" Leliana said quietly. Syl. It had been Syl.

Now she understood why Akana halted the elderly mage's advance.

"Tensions are high enough, Wynne. I think you should probably stay right there until we've got an agreement of some sort worked out."

"Don't be ridiculous, Akana, you'd in very obvious pain-"

"And there will be no _negotiations,_" Greagoire overrode Wynne, scowling. "You are harboring a Blood Mage, an Apostate, and that is a crime on par with treason."

Syl, behind them, drew back. Akana turned to look at her, only breaking eye contact with the Templar for a moment. "Steady," she said. Syl bit her bottom lip, but still nodded. Akana turned back to the matter at hand.

"That's -- Maker, Akana, that's one of the Blood Mages from the Tower! Sylvia! I _remember_ her! I remember the day she was brought into the Circle, the day she passed her Harrowing-" Suddenly the grey-haired mage's eyes went hard, stony. "You can't possibly protect this traitor, Akana. Greagoir's right. Let them pass."

Even the Queen eyed the conversation carefully. Wynne had a reputation for being one of Akana's closest mentors and advisors. If anyone could get through to her...

"I can't do that," Akana replied, just as resolute as ever. Leliana tightened her grip on the woman's waist. On another occasion, she might have been flushing and constantly reminding herself that she was not Zevran, so she should keep her hands in polite places. Now, all she could think was that her friend was making a terrible mistake, a mistake that she also couldn't _not_ make, because it was written into the core of who she was.

If you earned Akana's respect, her loyalty, you had the most fearsome friend and defender that any being could ever hope for.

Then again, if you betrayed her, she was just as vicious an opponent. Teryn Loghain had had to learn that the hard way. Leliana said a quick and silent prayer to the Maker that Loghain's daughter would not be stupid enough to follow in his footsteps.

So now, Akana wasn't just refusing to let the Blood Mage out of her custody. She was _incapable_ of it. She'd given Syl her word that she'd be protected, and for a woman like Akana one's word was as good as one's life -- even if the life of the Grey Warden Commander was more important than the life of a single, fugitive mage.

"We _will_ advance upon you," Greagoir stated, mouth drawn. "With all due respect, Grey Warden, while the Circle owes much to you, no one may act above the sacred duty of a Templar."

"Leliana," the Bard looked over, surprised to hear Alistair calling her name. He wasn't looking at her though: he was staring at Greagoir, a look of horror and realization on his face. "Cover Akana's mouth."

"What?" Leliana asked, but Akana had already replied.

"Is that so?" Her friend growled beside her, challenging, and Leliana felt it rumble into her chest by proximity.

"Do it, Leliana," Alistair commanded her, low and urgent.

"Alistair, I can't just-"

"Men!" Greagoire called, and the Royal Guard responded to him, even though he was not their Captain. The Captain himself nodded, his hand dropping to his sword. The Queen stood back, jaw set hard.

"Please reconsider this course of action, Akana. This is needless, and-" Wynne tried to reason with her, even as Leliana felt Akana's muscles tensing.

"Leliana, damn it, do it!" Alistair hissed.

"I'm giving you one chance to stop," Akana spat back. "This isn't a bluff you wanna call, Greagoir."

All the while Syl repeated, over and over, with a growing frenzy: "I can't go back, I can't go back, I can't go back-" Leliana could taste the magic in air now, dark and ancient and alive.

"For the love of the Maker, COVER HER MOUTH!" Alistair didn't bother to try to keep his voice low this time. Leliana gasped, and, because Alistair _must_ know something she didn't (and because she was afraid for what Akana might get herself into), she did as he bade. Her hand clapped over Akana's mouth, even as she felt the woman's words buzz hot against her fingers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into her friend's long ear.

Akana thrashed, and Greagoir stepped forward, the guards behind him: Alistair turned slightly to let them pass, but Zevran did not, looking frantically over to Akana for instruction.

"No! NO!" Syl screamed behind them, but did not attack, not yet -- but she would. They were backing a very dangerous animal into the a corner, and even if they caught her, there were going to be consequences, _casualties-_

"Ow!" Leliana yelped. "You bit me!" And surely enough, Akana _had_ bitten her. It wasn't too hard, hadn't drawn any blood (more for surprise than anything else), and she instinctively let go of her friend's mouth. What came next was a little less _gentle_: Akana shrugged her off with enough force that the Bard might as well have been a ragdoll. Leliana tumbled to the floor, watched as Akana roughly placed herself between Greagoir and Syl once again.

"I'm _ordering _you to stop. Right. Now." Akana was practically chest to chest with the Head Templar now: only he was more than a foot taller than she was, especially since she was greatly favoring her injured side. Still, there was nothing weak about her voice. He stopped, though it was obvious that he wasn't going to tolerate this for long.

"Under what jurisdiction?" The Queen asked sharply. "You have no power to give orders here-"

Alistair groaned breathlessly, before letting loose a stream of shamefully colorful obscenities.

_"As is bestowed upon the Grey Wardens, such that no law, institution, or King may interfere, I invoke the Right of Conscription."_

The room went so silent that all that could be heard was Syl's trembling breath.

"So you still want her?" Akana snarled up at the heavily armored man in front of her, this defiant tone much more natural to her than the regal one she'd just used.

_"Come and fucking get her."_


	20. Blackheart's Nectar: Part 1

**A/N: **I'm wondering if I should create a Table of Contents for all the chapters, which would have the titles and who's point of view each chapter was from. Would that be helpful to anyone? Lemme know. =)

* * *

**Alistair**

_"We're livin' on the edge,  
You can't help yourself from fallin'-  
Livin' on the edge,  
You can't help yourself at all."  
- Living on the Edge; Aerosmith _

_

* * *

  
_

He couldn't believe it. He kept thinking that: _I can't believe it, I can't believe it, I can't believe it._

Only, the truth was, he could.

Alistair had seen it coming as soon as the Knight-Commander had referred to Akana as what she was: a Grey Warden. The fact that he'd claimed that no one could stand between a Templar and his duty, well, that'd just been icing on the cake. If she hadn't had the idea by that point, Greagoir had practically handed it to her on a silver platter.

Of course she'd done what she'd done. For whatever reason -- and he supposed the fact that that woman had just saved her life didn't hurt -- Akana was defending this Blood Mage. And because she didn't have any swords or axes or maces on hand, she'd used the one weapon left to her. The only weapon that men like Greagoir, bound in tradition and chained to obligation, could not hope to stand against.

But Adraste's Ashes, that was a double-edged blade if there ever were one.

"You cannot," Anora flustered, lips pursed like a fish out of water, "You cannot simply _recruit_ a _Blood Mage!_"

Akana didn't even bother to look over at the Queen. No, she'd never been one to show respect to royalty out of principle, especially if she didn't think it was returned. If anything, Akana treated Anora like a nuisance, or a nagging little girl. Which wasn't exactly politically smart, and would probably come back to haunt them later, but Alistair was glad that _someone_ wasn't eagerly prostrating themselves before the new ruler's fancy slippers.

"She certainly can," Alistair replied to the Queen, who looked like she might burst into tears or throw a great fit. While that would have been satisfying to witness, the consequences probably wouldn't be nearly as fun. "And she did. It's not exactly something you can _take back_. It's done."

The weight of it sunk down on Alistair's shoulders, and probably even more heavily on Akana's. _Well, I guess this means the honeymoon is over, doesn't it?_ He thought, trying to joke with himself, but it wasn't even funny inside of his head. They weren't going to be two against the world anymore. And while he'd thought about rebuilding the Wardens every single day since Ostagar, there was a sense of loss and nostalgia: things were about to change, again. He had the decency to feel guilty about thinking that, though.

And who knew? Maybe the new woman wouldn't even make it through the Joining. What a warm and fuzzy thought.

"So this is how it's going to be," Greagoir said softly, staring down into Akana's eyes. They shouldn't be so different, really: they were both warriors, they both carried incredible burdens, and they were both leaders. But, past that, the similarities fell away: Greagoir believed in tradition, and Akana hated it. He represented order; she wanted liberation. He was discipline, a fortress, the Tower itself. She was tenacity, a firestorm that ate through old and dusty things like so much kindling.

And Alistair? He figured that he was stuck somewhere in the middle of all of that. It wasn't particularly fun all the time, either. On one hand your back was up against a stone wall, and on the other you were being cooked alive. Usually, which things _really_ took off, it was both at once.

"Sylvia Vannero will be the first recruit as we rebuild the Order after the recent defeat of the Archdemon," Akana replied. It was a lot more controlled than _"Come and fucking get her" -- _a line of pure bravado that had had incredible effects on Alistair's physical being. His breath had caught in his chest, his knees turned to jelly, and to be perfectly honest, other parts of him had gone almost _agonizingly_ was glad the attention wasn't on him now. At least when you wore platemail, those little embarrassments were all but hidden. Fancy Ball attire? Not so much.

Which wasn't to say he didn't foresee some Very Bad Things coming of this. He did; plus, as always, the things he _didn't_ see coming would be twice as awful. You didn't go against the Queen or the Knight-Commander of the Templars, and throw your lot in with a renegade Blood Mage, without _asking_ for some sort of cosmic punishment.

But Akana was courageous, stupid-brave in a way that made his heart melt and his brain soft and his other places hard, and somehow she'd stopped what would have been a devastating fight before it could even really begin. These were just a few reasons for Alistair to thank the Maker, which he did, and then he went to her side.

Now Greagoir looked from Akana to Alistair to the Blood Mage behind them, and he sighed. He'd known he'd lost as soon as Akana had used the Right of Conscription, but he hadn't seemed to believe it -- couldn't understand such an unprincipled, perverse decision -- until now. "For all of our sake's, Warden," he said, looking far too old to be wearing such heavy armor, "I hope that you know what you are doing. Even so, I fear that you have no appreciation for the consequences of your actions." She simply stared back at him. "Congratulations on your defeat of the Archdemon. Maker watch over you."

With that, it was done. Greagoir turned and left them. The guards, including their Captain, had no choice but to stand down. Instead, they dragged off the would-be assassin, who was still unconscious on the floor.

"Take him to the dungeons. We will discuss this all later," the Queen said impatiently, and moved off to try to salvage the situation. Somehow Alistair doubted that all of the gawking nobles (and elves, so many elves still -- they hadn't frightened off as easily, and many of them made up the first ring of onlookers) would simply return to dancing. They'd be chewing on this little event all night, and Anora would most likely try to do as much damage control here as possible. Which meant keeping everyone in the same area to check in on all the rumors that were going to be spawning (and probably already had).

"Fat chance," Akana muttered, low enough that only Alistair would hear it. The tension had broken, and Alistair turned to her. She was leaning heavily to one side, and he could see the sweat that had broken on her brow from the effort of not showing how much pain she was in. Akana eyes only ever came up to his mid-chest when she was standing upright, and now he had to kneel so that they could see face to face.

From this position she was slightly taller than him now, and he pulled her to him, as gently as he could. At first she was rigid, unresponsive, and he half expected her to shove him away. But then, surprisingly, Akana shuddered and let him hold her. She didn't move her arms around him, but she nuzzled her nose into his neck for a moment, and he could feel the how her breath shook when she exhaled. "Thanks," she murmured into his skin, and then drew back. Akana turned towards the Blood Mage behind them, and so did Alistair, standing as he did.

For a few seconds, all they did was look at each other, the three of them.

"I want to say that that could have gone better," Alistair finally spoke up, feeling the need to fill the awkward empty space between them. "But you know, I don't think it could have. And given the circumstances, that's saying something, isn't it?"

The Blood Mage -- Syl or Sylvia, whichever -- just stared blankly at him, in shock. It was better than spell-flinging terror, though. Someone cleared their voice, and Akana turned back.

"I need to speak with you," Wynne told her. The healer did not approach them; she still stood apart, in the spot where Akana had stopped her earlier. There was none of the familiar warmth in her voice, either. No, of course Wynne wouldn't be pleased. The more Alistair thought about it, the more he realized just how much of an understatement that might have been. But Wynne was their friend, right? She was more than that. She was the parental figure that so many of them had lacked... It couldn't turn out _too_ badly, could it?

Maker, the worst had to be over by now. Had to be.

Akana didn't answer, just nodded. The whole lot of them began to move towards an exit, and the crowds opened to let them through. Leliana took Syl gently by the arm, pulling her into the middle of the group, the most protected position. Zevran brought up the rear; a pretty terrible place to put a backstabber, but Alistair couldn't currently work up the indignant attitude that was necessary for most of his ill thoughts about the elf. Zevran had been the first to know that something that was wrong. Not quick enough to _stop_ it, but still, it was more than Alistair could say for himself.

Wynne walked at Akana's side, but for as close as they were physically, the chasm that had been driven between them was as clear as if they stood on opposing sides of a canyon. Alistair stepped up to his love, placing his arm around her injured side, shouldering some of her weight.

"I can walk," she growled, and resisted his help. That didn't stop him, though.

"It's either this or I'm throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you back like a crazed barbarian." And, Alistair was taken aback to realize, he was completely serious. She must have sensed it too, because she didn't fight him after that, and allowed him to help her.

The rest of the way was silent between them all.

- - - - -

"Akana!" Oghren met them as they approached the estate, staggering drunkenly but still with some control over his legs. Yorick was with him, the Mabari the size of a war-steed next to the dwarf. "You should _hear_ the stuff people are saying around here! All this about _assassinations _and _Blood Mages._ I didn't believe none of it though," he belched, and shook his head for emphasis, "I mean, they were saying you were _dead_, and I told them, heh, I told them, ain't no flouncy little backstabber with some four-inch blade that can take down _my_ girl -- no offense, Zevran."

Yorick, however, was not so convinced. The warhound rushed up to Akana, nearly barreling through Alistair to get to her. He stopped short of knocking her over though, delicately sniffing at her blood-stained dress and whining. Then the dog looked at him, and Alistair could have _sworn_ that there was an accusation in those strangely intelligent eyes: _How could you let this happen! Bad human!_

Zevran didn't bother answering Oghren, not even to trade comedic insults. In fact, no one said anything, and the small troop merely continued past the gates and towards the heavy iron door. "Wait," Oghren followed along side of them. "Wait, I'm seeing three Akanas right now, but _all_ of 'em look hurt. Did I miss somethin'?"

Silence. Oghren groaned. "I did! By the Ancestors, you weren't _fighting_ at a soddin' dance party, were you?!" He sounded absolutely dismayed. "I skipped the whole thing because I thought it would be boring! Why aren't any of you talkin'?"

It wasn't like them to be quiet after a battle, the dwarf was right about that. But Alistair didn't think the fight was over: they were only in intermission now. And the second half of it, which would be between Akana and Wynne, was likely to be uglier than the first. When no one replied to him, Oghren huffed, but stumbled into pace alongside of Zevran at the back. Yorick walked at Akana's other side, and Alistair noticed that her hand had drifted down to the Mabari's wide head, lightly petting him for comfort.

When they got inside, Arl Eamon himself greeted them: it hadn't been a full 48 hours since the Archdemon's death, and he'd planned to finish out the week in Denerim before returning to Redcliffe.

"Akana, Alistair," he called to them, stepping forward. The look in his gaze was nothing if it was not parental, and Alistair was grateful for it. "The rumor mill has been working so furiously that it's all but caught aflame. Please, sit, rest, I'll get you a healer at once-" And then he looked up, noticing Wynne only a few steps away. "Or-?"

"Thanks, Eamon. But there are some things that need tending to first," Akana said, and Alistair could hear the strain in her voice. The Arl of Redcliffe looked prepared to argue with her, like any good host and sort-of-father-in-law-ish figure would, but she smiled at him, weakly. "It looks worse than it is." But Alistair could feel her heart battering against her ribcage, not its usual slow and powerful pace. He wasn't sure how much of that was from nerves, and how much of it was from lingering pain: he didn't like the thought of either one bit. "Please, do you have a room where Wynne and I might speak in private?"

Alistair watched Akana's face as she said it, and though she kept her gaze level and her tone neutral, he could see too much white in her eyes. _Fear._ He'd only seen her frightened on very rare occasions, and they never had to do with combat. Facing off against opponents physically never bothered her, but every inch of her body was whispering to him that she was _terrified_ now. And there was nothing at all he could do to help: she wouldn't let him, even if he tried.

"Of course," the Arl said after a moment, before looking towards Syl. "Is this...?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?" Akana asked, her voice not threatening, but definitely exhausted. Alistair doubted that she'd force the Blood Mage upon the Arl's hospitality if he objected, but he really hoped that Eamon wouldn't. Akana had more important things to worry about than trying to find another safe place to put the woman for the night.

Though he frowned, the Arl shook his head. "Anyone under the Hero of Ferelden's protection shall not be turned aside, not on my watch."

Akana nodded, her gratitude so deep that Alistair felt her body slump, momentarily, in his grasp. "Thank you," she said thickly, and then turned to face the men and women behind her. He couldn't help but notice that she didn't look at Wynne. "Leliana, can you make sure Syl's set up in a room, and made comfortable? Some clean, dry clothes are probably in order. If she wants any food have them send to the kitchens for it, but I want a tester, too." The Arl's frown deepened.

"Surely that's not necessary," Eamon rumbled. "There is no servant in my employ who would dare to poison..." And then, as if realizing what he was saying, he looked away, embarrassed. Alistair wanted to reach out and pat his shoulder companionably, but Eamon's shame looked too deep. Besides, he was still supporting Akana.

Thankfully, though every one of them couldn't be thinking anything other than _Jowan -- _and really, what great irony _that_ was given the present company -- Akana opted for a rare moment of tact. "I barely survived an assassination attempt in the Queen's own court today, Arl. Please forgive my wariness."

"Yes. Yes of course."

Akana nodded, and then looked down to her Mabari, who in turn looked up expectantly. "Yorick, I want you on guard inside of Syl's room, if she'll permit it. If not, stay just outside. You recognize the Arl's servants, right?" The hound woofed affirmatively, and Akana smiled, however faintly, for a second. "Good boy," she muttered, scratching the dog's ears. "Be nice to Syl." With that, Yorick turned and trotted back to the Blood Mage. Neither of them seemed to know quite what to make of each other at first, but Yorick went and licked the blood from her fingers, tentatively. Though she didn't come out of her glazed-over shock, Syl did react minimally: fingers twitching receptively, and then moving to the great beast's ruff. It was a start.

Her orders finished up, Akana glanced over at Wynne, looking away so quickly that it seemed like it might have been an accident. "Well then, let's do this." The dread her voice hung heavily in the air. She tried to pull away from him, but Alistair didn't let go.

"Let me walk you there," Alistair pleaded quietly, mouth practically pressed to her ear. "Please."

Akana looked at him, and he realized that her beautiful and menacing mask was gone; at least the one that had been made of steel. His chest went tight when he saw tears pool in her raincloud eyes. She nodded, slightly, and he felt her hand tighten where she held to his side. _I don't know if I can do this,_ she seemed to be saying as she stared at him, clinging to him with one arm (or at least as close to clinging as a woman like Akana ever got). He wanted to tell her that she'd do fine, that it'd be okay, that it was just _Wynne_ for the Maker's sake, but really, his heart wouldn't have been in it. It would be insulting to pretend that the kind of courage that got a warrior through a battle was the same stuff that got a friend through whatever was coming next for her and the healer.

The Arl led them down a long hall, and Alistair wasn't surprised when Zevran and Oghren followed as well. Leliana did for a time, until she branched off to get Syl set up in her own room. The hall curved out into a waiting area, a lounge with chairs and a fireplace, and at the back wall there was a heavy door. Eamon unlocked it for them, and Alistair caught a glimpse of the interior: rich woods, over-stuffed chairs, and fancy rugs. It was dark inside, but he handed Akana the oil lamp he'd been carrying.

"Should I send someone to light the rest of the lamps and candles?"

"No thank you," Akana replied, shifting against Alistair. "I can manage."

"As you wish," Eamon replied, and bowed. "If everything is in order, then I will take my leave of you for now. You'll debrief me in the morning, when you've had a chance to sleep?" Alistair, who often had very mixed feelings for the Arl, couldn't help but love the man now for the compassion he was showing to Akana.

"Yessir," Akana said, forcing a half-smirk.

It looked like he wanted to say something else -- he glanced between Akana and Wynne and opened his mouth -- but then decided against it. With a sigh, Eamon walked away.

"After you," Wynne said, tone both icy and polite. She gestured for Akana to enter first. Reluctantly, Alistair loosened his hold on the elf woman. Just before fully releasing her though, he bowed his head down, lips to her temple. He gave her a small, soft kiss, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, trying to send some of his love into her for comfort. "If you need me," he murmured.

"I will," she replied, fingers digging into his arm for a moment. It took every bit of willpower that he had to force himself to let her go, but he managed. Without looking back -- he had the feeling that she didn't want him, or anyone, to see just how close she was to cracking -- Akana walked into the room.

Wynne went to follow her, and Alistair caught the mage's arm, briefly. She eyed him sternly, lips drawn into a thin line. "How many would have died, if she hadn't?" Alistair asked, voice low and quick.

But the healer did not blink, did not soften. She stared at him just as fiercely, the eyes of a much younger woman looking back at him. "And now that she has, how many more will?" Wynne asked, voice just as quiet as his. With that, the elderly woman was gone, and the door swung shut in his face.


	21. Blackheart's Nectar: Part 2

**A/N: **Sooo I wrote up this whole long thing about why I split up narratives and begging for you guys to let me know what you think I should do, and then "Save" decided to crap out on me. Here it is, again.

**The Situation: **I understand that the way I tend to split narratives into two or three parts may create a disjointed reading experience for many of you, and that you would prefer narratives to be posted in whole, even if it meant less frequent updates. On the other hand, I also understand that some folks probably prefer more frequent updates, even at the cost of chapter size. However, I want to get a sense for the overall opinion of the reader base. If you're someone who clicks on a chapter only to go, "Gross, Alistair again? I thought we were done with him for a while!" this is probably worth reading through.

**Full Disclosure:** One of the most relevant reasons why I post this way has to do with safeguarding against my own bad tendencies. While I think I would prefer to post one whole narrative at a time (as I think that's how I might prefer to read this story, if I was on the other side of this), posting in fragments helps me keep up a steady cycle of writing and posting. I've mentioned to a few of you before in review replies that my current system is to write so that I'm two or three chapters ahead, and then only post things from earlier. That way I never feel stressed about "oh no I haven't posted anything in DAYS crap I need to write something!" Posting on an almost daily basis also makes me feel more comfortable because I never have to worry if I'm leaving the story in the cold.

Again, full disclosure... I'm very cautious here because I know what happens when I think a fanfic has become more trouble than it's worth. I get irritable, worn thin, and then just drop the story entirely. Basically, Bad Stuff. However, I think that I could probably handle avoiding that -- I would just post whole narratives at once, but only if I have another two stored up ahead of time. This would likely drop my updates to one or twice a week.

**Any Solutions?: **If you are a regular reader (or even a new or sporadic reader, I'm not picky) _please please please_ let me know if you have an opinion either way, whether in a private message or a review or whatever. I'm wary of changing a system that's been working for me, but I am definitely willing to try if enough people would prefer the alternative. Worst comes to worst, I will switch back to my sloppy, informal method.

Anyways: Gross, Alistair again. ;)

Up next? Wynne.

* * *

**Alistair**

_"We're livin' on the edge,  
You can't help yourself from fallin'-  
Livin' on the edge,  
You can't help yourself at all."  
- Living on the Edge; Aerosmith_

_

* * *

_

Alistair slumped onto one of the lounge chairs. Most of the blood on his clothes had dried by now, but even if it hadn't, he couldn't care less. Even staying upright was a challenge: he wanted nothing more than to allow his body to fall over, to curl up there on those cushions and pass out. "That's one way to ruin a very fine evening," he muttered to himself, head craned all the way back against the stone wall behind the couch.

"You two gonna tell me what happened now?" Oghren grunted, plopping down on an ottoman. Alistair didn't have it in him to alert the sloshed dwarf that that wasn't a _chair_ it was a _footstool_. He'd probably figured it out the first time he tumbled off of it onto the floor, anyway. Zevran leaned against a nearby pillar, the flickering candles above him casting sinister shadows drown his shoulders.

"Why don't _you_ go ahead, Zevran. This is your territory, isn't it?" It was mean and uncalled for and Alistair didn't give a Chantry rat's ass. Zevran gave him a glare of unadulterated spite, something that had more than a little violence in it, but Alistair wasn't worried. If there was one thing left in the world that he had the energy for right now, it was taking out his jagged emotions on an assassin.

Any would do, really.

"Akana was the target of an attempted assassination," Zevran explained, finally taking his eyes off of Alistair's and looking towards Oghren, who stared blearily up at him.

The dwarf snorted. "Well that ain't nothing new. Doesn't explain the fuss, though. I mean, you tried it, and the girl didn't even take it personally. Surprised we haven't got a new _friend _from it-"

"This assassin came much closer to success than I did." There might have been a hint of wounded pride there, Alistair was _sure_ of it, but more than that there was a cold wonder and even concern. "His blade was poisoned." Zevran's eyes flicked back over to him, and Alistair scowled. "This was not any ordinary poison, either."

"She's alive, ain't she?"

"Thanks only to the Blood Mage, Sylvia, who accompanied us back to the estate tonight."

"Wait, a _Blood Mage_ saved her? Can they even do that?" Oghren scratched at his beard, and finding a crumb of something in it, proceeded to pop the morsel into his mouth. That had to be at _least_ in the top twenty things Alistair wished he could un-see.

"Apparently they can. The poison thins its victim's blood, so that it runs even quicker than water. Akana lost pints of blood from a small wound in less than a handful of minutes. The Blood Mage controlled it, somehow, and willed her blood back into her body. Which does not, I might add, explain the fact that the _poison_ didn't still kill her."

"Akana's a tough girl," Oghren shrugged, and Alistair wanted very badly to side with him. How easy it would be to let it roll of his back, lump it in with a _"Yeah she's great, amazing, the best" _and be done with it. But he'd been there. He was still covered in her blood, and he knew that the nightmare of her bleeding out while he could do nothing to stop it was going to haunt him forever. It'd been worse, somehow, than with the Archdemon. At least that would have been a worthy death, something they saw coming: not being taken down by just one man and a knife between the ribs. Not when she should have been _safe._

"Mmph." Zevran was not convinced. "Well, Akana is alive, as you have seen. That is what is most important, of course. However, afterwards, there was a stand-off with the Royal Guards, Queen Anora, and the Knight-Commander of the Templars himself. They wished to take the Apostate into custody-"

"-mother-humping sons of_-_" Oghren started.

"-and Akana disagreed. Just when it seemed that the guards and the Templar would leave her no choice, Akana recruited the woman in the Grey Wardens. The mage hasn't said much since. And, so, here we are."

"So Wynne and Akana..." Oghren jerked a thumb towards the closed door at the other end of the lounge. Alistair closed his eyes, hands balling into fists.

"Wynne has never been particularly forgiving when it comes to Blood Mages," Zevran replied coolly. Alistair snickered under his breath. Well, that was one way to put it. As sweet and kind as the healer was, all that seemed to evaporate whenever they faced anyone wielding Blood Magic. If she only knew that Akana had chugged a vial of dragon's blood in order to gain the same deadly capabilities as Haven's Reavers.

_Or the pact we made with Morrigan-_

Alistair swallowed hard.

There was the sound of someone walking down the hall, and Alistair lifted his head long enough to see Leliana walking towards them. Her brow was deeply furrowed, and she hadn't bothered to change out of her dress -- dried blood splattered across the bare skin of her chest and the fabric alike. The other two men also acknowledged her approach.

"Are they...?" Leliana nodded her head towards the closed door across the room.

"Yeh," Oghren answered for them.

"I see," she said quietly. "Do you think we should get Sten?"

"No." Alistair answered definitively, perhaps even a little harshly, because then everyone was looking at him. "The guy's probably sleeping, and you know how he is." Putting on his best Beresaad voice, he continued: "_The battle is over, there is no danger. Why have you summoned me?_" Alistair shook his head lightly. "Let him be."

"Yes, but..." Leliana looked down at her hands, wringing them together. She didn't finish the thought, but she didn't have to: they could all feel it perfectly well, filling the space between them: _Shouldn't we all be here?_ It asked. _Shouldn't we all be together, maybe for the last time?_

No one said anything, and Leliana didn't bring it up again. She sat down on one of the high-backed chairs not far away, and began to fret at the cuff of one of her sleeves.

They waited. Alistair wasn't sure if it was hours or minutes, but it went on forever. He felt the urge to start yelling senselessly, like he had before in the Chantry when things were too quiet, but bit his tongue. He was still biting when they heard the shout.

_"You cannot be SERIOUS Akana! Come to your senses, you foolish girl!"_ Though certainly stifled by the heavy door, the words were clear in the utmost silence between them. Each of them winced, and Alistair drew a sharp intake of breath. He'd never heard Wynne yell like that, and much less at Akana. Her voice quickly dropped back down low enough that they didn't hear any more.

More time passed.

Finally, Zevran shifted his weight, and broke the stillness. "Leliana?"

She looked up sharply, seemingly eager to have something to focus on that wasn't waiting for another shout. "Yes?"

"Have you ever heard of Blackheart's Nectar?" Alistair hadn't, and he had no idea what some sort of booze or whatever it was had to do with the situation at hand. He was about to say so, when Leliana responded.

"You mean the poison?"

Good thing he hadn't opened his mouth.

"Yes," Zevran nodded. "What do you know of it?"

Leliana blinked for a moment, and then looked up, as if the words to the story were written on the ceiling. Alistair checked. They were not.

"Blackheart was the most deadly assassin to ever live. It's unclear whether Blackheart was a man or a woman, or of what race, because no one looked upon Blackheart and lived. Blackheart's Nectar was his or her masterpiece, the most deadly killing agent ever crafted: a legendary poison so potent that no man could withstand its effects. Even a drop of it could fell a league of soldiers, making their blood run and bubble like heated oil. This alone caused an agonizing death, but the real danger lay in how it quickened the blood: even the smallest cut might be fatal, as nothing could staunch the flow." Leliana looked back down to Zevran, no longer staring upwards. "They say that it gave pause even to the Old Gods themselves, and a blade coated in it could bring death to the Immortal."

"Well said." Zevran withdrew something from inside of his shirt: a small bundle. As he began to unwrap it, Leliana spoke up again.

"But it's not _real,_" she insisted, eyes carefully watching the Assassin's hands as he revealed the dagger that had been tucked into the cloth. "It's a myth."

"Mm," Zevran hummed under his breath, and then held the dagger to the light. He was touching it very carefully, not letting his bare skin meet the hilt. There was still blood on it_ -- Akana's_ blood -- and Alistair realized that it was the blade that had almost killed her. Why wasn't he surprised that Zevran had nicked it? "Unfortunately, my lovely story-teller, Blackheart's Nectar is quite real."

"Zevran, it's not possible-"

"One of the most closely guarded secrets of the Antivan Crows," Zevran spoke over her, and Leliana fell silent. "Is that they possess a single vial of the God-killing poison. The knowledge of how to craft such a toxin has long been lost, even to us."

"Humph," Oghren grunted. "What good is that? If it just sits there and never gets used, it's about as special as having a cup'f ogre-spit."

"If it's true," Alistair answered, sneering. "If it's true, I'm sure it's _very_ special to them. Just like Andraste's Ashes are for the Chantry." Leliana narrowed her eyes at him, but Alistair continued. "They probably all gather around in their hooded cloaks and their tight leather pants and bow down pray to it."

Zevran's eyes glanced up at him, just above the dagger's curved blade. What Alistair saw wasn't anger or even irritation, only cool detachment. "You're quite right, Alistair. For the Crows, or any ring of assassins, a vial of the Nectar is an artifact with all the significance of a religious relic. Wars have been waged in its name, entire clans of the Thedosian underworld wiped out with hardly a ripple in the pages of history."

"Lovely. A heart-warming tale I'll be sure to pass on to my children and my children's children. Seeing as Akana almost _died_ to an assassin and some poison tonight, I'll hold the story especially close to my heart. Thank you, Zevran." Alistair let his head slump back to the wall behind him with a painful thud.

"You miss the point," Zevran said, and now there was a twinge of annoyance in his tone.

"You're saying that you believe Blackheart's Nectar was used on Akana?" Leliana asked, speaking very slowly, the kind of tone one used with the mentally unstable or very small children.

"Yes. I am sure of it."

"_Bloody-_" Alistair groaned.

"Zevran, even if it was possible that someone had access to that type of poison, it _couldn't_ have been Blackheart's Nectar. Akana wouldn't have survived," Leliana pressed.

"Yes. It's very... curious. This blade was covered in the stuff. It's decayed, now that it's mixed with blood, but when I first picked it from the marble, I could still see its moss-colored sheen. There was enough of it to kill twenty men, with ease, and yet Akana lived."

"Great," Alistair growled. He didn't like the sound of this Blackheart Nectar one bit, and listening to Zevran go on about how Akana shouldn't have survived wasn't improving his mood at all. "There's a certain _Archdemon_ that I'm sure would _love_ to hear your theory about how Akana should be dead right now. Why don't you run along to go tell it to him?"

Zevran paused, glaring at him. "I don't know about Grey Warden traditions or demons, let alone Archdemons. But I _do_ know about poisons. This was Blackheart's Nectar. I am as thankful as anyone that Akana is alive, but we cannot blithely continue on as if nothing happened. Even if it is by some impossible fluke that she lived, perhaps some product of being a Grey Warden coupled with Syl's unconventional assistance, this was no regular assassination attempt. Whoever planned this had access to unimaginable resources."

"Okay, fine," Alistair spat, feeling like he was being prodded with an iron poker that'd been left overnight in the fire. "So what do you want to do about it, Zevran? You're the resident expert in trying to kill her. Maybe you can run off and compare _notes-_"

Something snapped behind the Assassin's eyes, and he didn't see the dagger leave Zevran's hand: he only heard the _thunk_ as the blade sunk into the wall inches from his right ear. Before Alistair could get to his feet the elf was already on him, one hand curled around his throat, the other planted against the wall on the other side of his head, opposite the dagger.

"Zevran! Both of you! Stop it!" Leliana shouted, leaping to her feet.

"By Andraste's sagging tits, not in here!" Oghren grumbled, rubbing the sides of his head with both hands, but seeming otherwise unconcerned. "Go outside and do this."

Alistair grabbed Zevran's wrist, but the Assassin's hand tightened on his windpipe. He was still half in shock, and his body had sunken into the cushioned softness of the couch. "If I wanted to kill Akana," Zevran spat, and Alistair stopped struggling to listen, because his voice was so quiet it was little more than a tickle on Alistair's face, "I could have done it a hundred times over by now."

Even if Alistair had wanted to reply, he couldn't: he couldn't breathe, let alone get a snarky word in.

"If it weren't for fate or dumb luck, she would have died without even the comfort of sword in her hand. And you, you who have sworn to protect her, would rather lounge on a cozy seat and make _jokes._" His grip was like steel, and Alistair couldn't withstand it any more. He'd wanted to play chicken, wanted to remain as impassive as the Assassin himself so often did, wanted to appear unaffected; but Zevran's words lanced through him and he jerked forward. Alistair was stronger, strong enough that even from his sitting position he ripped Zevran's hand away, pushing the elf back.

Zevran easily caught himself, and the look in his eyes was _murder_.

"Who are you?!" Alistair half-shouted, half-coughed, throat sore and constricted. "Who in all of the Maker's creation are _you_ to tell _me_-"

Leliana stepped between them, just as she had at the masquerade, only this was worse. She placed a hand on each chest, and Alistair had to restrain himself from swiping it away.

"Both of you! Think about where you are! This isn't the time or the place-"

Alistair didn't care. He didn't care, he was going to break his knuckles on Zevran's pretty little elf _face-_

"Eh, let 'em duke it out, Leliana," Oghren encouraged, excitement building in his voice now. If it was going to be an actual fight, he was eager for it. "They haven't got any weapons on 'em now, and it'll be good for both of 'em. They've got things to settle, and this was bound to happen sooner or later-"

"Oghren!" Leliana snapped. "No! You two are acting like children! If you want to carry on like this, fine, but not here and not now! How _dare_ you." And that last line was filled with such disgust that it got through to him; and to Zevran too, from the looks of it. "You both wish to help Akana, yes? What do you think will happen when she comes out of that room? The last thing she needs to do is clean up whatever _mess_ you make. You are both grown men: so _act like it._"

Properly scolded, both Zevran and Alistair stood down. Color was high in Leliana's cheeks, and Alistair could not meet her eyes. He turned away, fists still clenched, body quivering in fury. What did Zevran think he could do, anyway?! Run off and ask the first person he met who organized the hit tonight? That he should leave Akana in there with Wynne, be gone when she came out? Oh wouldn't _he_ love that, then he could be there to swoop in, all pretend-caring and fake-charming and _you can cry on my shoulder_ and Alistair wanted tear his _throat_ out.

_He attacked me!_ Alistair thought, in rage and disbelief. _He attacked me, in the Arl's estate! He could be hanged for that! He _should _be hanged for that!_

"Good," Leliana said. "Now get a hold of yourselves."

And of course the Bard was right but couldn't she _see _it? Couldn't she see how awful Zevran was? How was it that Alistair was the only one that noticed, the only one that _cared_? He walked over to where the dagger protruded from the wall, and yanked to out. Barely looking it over, he tossed it down on a nearby table, and with a snarl, sat back down. He didn't lean back this time though: he sat at the couch's edge, elbows bent on his knees.

"Party-pooper," the dwarf snorted, but there was a tiny bit of relief in it. He resettled on his ottoman, and tilted his head side to side, listening to the joints pop.

Zevran went back to his spot by the pillar, only this time he did not face any of them. He crossed his arms and stared intently at the door behind which Akana and Wynne were still having their meeting. Alistair glared darkly at the Assassin. This wasn't over.

And as he thought it, he knew that the elf was thinking the same thing.

_Next time, Leliana won't be there to stand between us._

Alistair welcomed that day.


	22. The Shape of Things to Come: Part 1

**A/N:** Thank you all for your input about the posting situation. I think I've decided to keep the current system I have going. I'd say it was a tough decision, but not-changing is much easier than changing. ;)

To some folks who weren't logged in to an account when they reviewed: thanks tmelange! I'm sure Bioware would smell the fangirl on me from miles away and know better than to extend a job offer, unfortunately. And Lily -- read it all in one sitting?! I'm impressed, and touched! Thank you, and glad you're enjoying the story!

As an interesting aside: it was really entertaining for me to see everyone's reactions to the Zevran / Alistair conflict in the last chapter. There are definitely two distinct camps of fans that I can see, lol! Provided a lot of much-needed amusement during the hell of my last few finals.

Speaking of which, posting may slow to a crawl over the next few days as I finish up finals. As always I'll do my best to get an update up at least once every two days, but I can't make any promises.

AAAND now that I'm done blabbering, without further ado, here's the first half of what's going on between Wynne and Akana. *innocent whistle*

* * *

**Wynne**

_"So much you did. So much you did and so much more you would have done, aye, and all without a check or qualm, and so will the world end, I think, a victim of love rather than hate. For love's ever been the more destructive weapon, sure."  
— Roland, The Dark Tower_

_"Kill all my demons, and my angels might die too."  
— Tennessee Williams_

_

* * *

  
_

Wynne watched as Akana lit the lamps on the wall, and then the candles upon the table. Everything about the young woman was familiar now, from the silver-white of her hair, to the length of her fingers, to the scowl etched onto her face. She moved powerfully, though not as gracefully as usual: the wound at her side made her body lean. It hurt Wynne to see her so, but she held her peace until Akana was finished. When the Warden finally put down the lamp she was holding -- her hands shaking -- Wynne stepped forward.

"Before we discuss anything, please. Let me tend to that." Now that they were alone Akana would not have to worry about appearing weak. Though Wynne knew that this could only end on a scale from poor to disastrous, she could not force Akana to sit in pain throughout. Akana looked at her like she might refuse, but then nodded.

Wynne approached her, as she had so many times, and for a moment it was like nothing had changed. Akana lifted her arm to give Wynne access to the injury, and the healer gingerly felt around the wound. She could sense the barely-tended rend in Akana's flesh without even needing to touch it directly. Gently placing her palm on the Warden's side, she willed healing energies into it: bidding the swelling to recede, and the bruising to pass. Just as she was about to pull her hand away, she felt something else.

An older injury? Lingering poison? She couldn't tell, and before she had time to check more thoroughly, Akana withdrew from her touch.

"Thank you," Akana murmured. She breathed more easily now, and her body was no longer tense with pain, though this only made the emotional burden she carried more obvious. "I guess we should sit."

"Yes," Wynne answered, and they did: not at opposite sides of the square table, but rather at one corner, like friends. And were they not friends? Wynne had come to consider the elven Miss even more than that: she'd tutored many apprentices in her time, and Akana was at once like them, and more than them. The Grey Warden looked up to her too, she knew that. The girl had never had a true mother figure; Akana had confided in Wynne that the death of her mother had been devastating. And though women could be just as vicious and battle-hardened as men -- Akana herself was testament to that -- Wynne couldn't help but think that the young Warden had needed the loving touch of a female role model, and had never gotten it.

Even now, Wynne couldn't help but love the bright, bold eyes that glared up at her. She was so _proud_ of the girl. So proud, but so... disappointed, too, at what had happened tonight. "I did what I had to do," Akana started. She was already on the offensive, and Wynne was not surprised. The offensive, the first strike, was where Akana lived.

_But no,_ Wynne corrected herself. _She is not so uncomplicated as that._ If she was, she would never permit such threats as a Blood Mage, or that young man Zevran, to live. Akana did not necessarily believe in preemptive attacks; this was simply a sign that she hadn't the first idea about how to defend herself. Yes, that was more accurate. Wynne closed her eyes, briefly, and took in a breath. She was far too old to be doing this, but who else would?

"You must rescind the Right of Conscription, Akana."

"I can't," the girl replied stubbornly. Wynne hadn't expected anything less.

"Yes, you can." She insisted patiently. "It was a heat of the moment decision. You had only barely recovered from an attempt on your life, and you were in a great deal of pain. I also realize that you may have done it to keep Sylvia from attacking anyone, and that was very well-intentioned of you-"

"That's _not_ why I did it." Akana growled, and Wynne felt her patience begin to slip. "And it can't be taken back. It's absolute: the Right of Conscription works on everyone, and no one can challenge it."

"No one will hold you to that. There were no Grey Wardens present other than Alistair, and he will understand. The situation was a mess, and no one will blame you. You _can_ take it back."

"I won't." And yes, Wynne had expected this too. Now at least they were going to get to the heart of it. She knew how fiercely Akana believed in protecting her allies. Getting past that instinct, if Wynne even could, would be like carving a tunnel through a mountain, with only a spoon at her disposal. On one hand, it was an admirable trait. On the other, it was childishly idealistic, or even downright dangerous. Not everyone could be redeemed, and not everyone deserved a second chance. Blood Mages like the ones who had nearly destroyed the Tower were among that number.

"Why not?"

The girl licked her lips nervously, and Wynne could see her mentally working to find the best way to answer. Akana wouldn't directly _lie_ to her, at least not with any real effort. That was part of considering Wynne a trusted friend, but Wynne knew that she'd avoid the full truth if she could do it. "Because she saved my life. I owe her," Akana answered, and Wynne knew that though this was part of it, it certainly wasn't _all_ of it. Akana was loyal to a fault, but she wasn't so selfish as this.

"She did save your life, but that would only make you two _even_, wouldn't it? You hardly owe her anything." The Warden looked away, and Wynne put more pressure on her. "Besides, what is saving one life when you've had a hand in taking and ruining so many? Or is the life of a Grey Warden so much more valuable than others that protecting it once outweighs so many acts of evil?"

Akana's gaze flicked back to her immediately, jaw tightening. "You _know_ I don't think that."

"Then why, Akana? Why must this Blood Mage, who turned on her own people and aided those that brought the Circle to its knees, be absolved from her crimes? What makes her fit to be a Grey Warden? And don't tell me that it's just because she's a capable fighter; if that were the deciding factor, you could have a whole host of Wardens by now."

"Because..." Akana started, fingers curling, grasping handfuls of her dress as she stared into her lap.

"You had a reason, Akana. Despite what you say, I still believe that part of it was in averting the violence that certainly would have followed otherwise. I also believe that you feel loyalty to her for saving your life; but that that alone would not drive you to such a drastic decision. You did not conscript Jowan, after all. You let him be taken back to the Tower for trial."

"I didn't have any Archdemon blood to Join him," Akana muttered under her breath, and Wynne felt the side of her mouth tic in irritation.

"That's not funny, Akana." Really, humor, in a discussion like this? Alistair was rubbing off on the girl. The two of them would probably giggle together during a funeral. "Why did you recruit Sylvia? Was she controlling you?"

"No!" The Warden snorted, looking back up into Wynne's eyes. "No, of course not!"

"Then _why?_"

"I... I..." Again, her eyes dropped down.

"Akana, _tell_ me. One does not simply welcome such a treacherous, blood-thirsty criminal into her open arms for no reaso-" Akana mumbled something, and Wynne stopped. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"What did you say?"

"It was nothing. I didn't say anything."

"Tell me what you said, Akana," Wynne ordered the girl. The Warden might have been their leader during the war, but the war was over.

"I said _she's not bloodthirsty_."

"...what do you mean?" Wynne asked, frowning.

"She's not bloodthirsty. I _know_ what bloodthirsty is, Wynne. I've been there. I've drunk from that bitter brew, and I've drunk deep. Syl was-" Akana's voice faltered, but then she pushed through, braving it, though Wynne could see that she hated saying it in front of her. "Syl was trying to do the right thing."

"At the masquerade?" The mage asked, mildly confused. "Yes, she didn't seem to be there to hurt anyone, but-"

"At the Tower."

_What does the Tower have to do with anything_, Wynne began to think, but even before the words finished running across her mind, she felt herself go very still. The whole room seemed to pause, to hold its breath, and she stared at the young woman in front of her. She was barely out of girlhood, and she'd already lost her entire Order (save the one man she'd come to love) and united a nation in the face of civil war. She'd ended a Blight by killing an Archdemon and living to see the rising dawn. Now though, Akana would not meet Wynne's eyes, had not the courage to do so, and Wynne was finally beginning to understand why.

_Oh_, Wynne thought, and suddenly this seemed so much worse, so much more unbearable. _Oh._

"Akana," Wynne said, and she wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a warning, but all that came out was disappointment, fat and heavy.

"I was dragged from my _home_ Wynne. I was dragged from my home which was already a cage and I was thrown in a dungeon made of stone. When I had the chance to escape, I took it, and I killed everyone. I killed people I didn't _need_ to kill, Wynne. I cut through servants and cooks and guards like they were all Vaughn himself. And when I came to the end, I gathered my cousin up because she couldn't even _walk_, and I left the corpses lie."

"Akana," Wynne repeated, this time with more empathy. She reached out, lightly touching the girl's arm. "That's not the same, it's not your _fault_-"

The Warden snatched her arm out of from under Wynne's touch, and now that glare was on her, full-force: not confusion or trepidation but barely contained anger. "I don't feel guilty, damn it! If I feel guilt it's for letting Duncan drag me off when they came to Purge; if I feel guilt it's because_ I didn't kill enough of them _to make it stop_, forever._"

And the way Akana looked at her now, it was as if Wynne herself were no better than one of those men that helped to steal her life away. She was speechless, could only watch as the woman stood, pushing her chair back. The warrior began to pace, feverish, and Wynne watched as her hands subconsciously moved to her hips, seeking to rest on weapons that weren't there.

"Of course it's not my fault. It wasn't my fault, it wasn't Shianni's fault, it wasn't any of our faults. I did what I had to do. They treated us as something less than human, like pets to be locked up until you wanted to _play_ with them. I bought our freedom with _blood_, and let me tell you, I would have paid _twice the cost_ in a heartbeat. If someone leaves you no other option, Wynne, you do what you must. The stairs that lead people out of bondage have _always_ been slippery with the blood of slavers."

Passion gave the Warden an eloquence that Wynne had never seen, and it made her words only that much more damning: it meant that she believed them, with the fullness of her being. How could Wynne make her see? The Tower was not like the Alienage. The mages at the Tower were put there for everyone's protection, including their own. They had families there. There were _good times, _andit was not all just bleak captivity.

_So,_ a sneaking voice inside of her questioned, _it is quite like the Alienage indeed, isn't it?_

"Akana, listen to me. What you did in the previous Arl's castle was... it was regrettable that such a thing must happen, but it was not the same as what the Blood Mages did to the Circle. They turned on their own, people who were like brothers and sisters to them! You _saw_ the damage, you saw the monstrosities that they welcomed into the Tower, the Abominations that Uldred himself created!" Maker, why did she even have to explain this? Akana was not some rabid revolutionary, foaming at the mouth to overturn order!

_You don't know that. Maybe she's just been too busy saving Ferelden for you to notice._

"Yeah, well maybe a bit of _fresh air_ and some room to _stretch their legs_ would have stopped them all from losing their shit, huh?"

"How dare you!" Wynne snapped, feeling true, hot anger pour through her. "How dare you mock the lives lost at the Tower!"

As if realizing what she'd said, Akana looked away, embarrassed. This appeased Wynne slightly, but the Warden's quip still rang in her ears. Like it was so simple as that; that the doors of the Tower could just be opened and that would solve everything. Akana might not have been a mage, but she should know well the power of magic by now. She had fought her way through the Fade, saved a possessed boy, and been on the receiving end of countless unpleasant spells. All this, _and_ she'd been witness to the atrocities at the Tower. How could she choose to be so blind?

"I cannot condemn someone for doing what I may well have done, were I in her place." Her tone was more even now, but just as resolute.

"But Akana, dear, you _wouldn't_ have done it. Don't you see that? You _wouldn't_ have harmed those you cared about. She _did_." There: a moment of hesitation, however faint, passed over Akana's face. Wynne delicately continued. "You wouldn't have followed someone like Uldred. You wouldn't have turned to something so corrupt and dangerous asBlood Magic."

As quickly as the hesitation had appeared, it was gone. Something dark and nebulous took its place, and Akana lowered her voice. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Wynne."

She didn't even know _what_ to make of that, but it froze the very marrow in her old bones. _No,_ Wynne insisted. _No, Akana may be hard on herself, may think herself worse than she is, but I know who she is. I have seen her heart._

"I know that you went out of your way to save a tainted Mabari hound. I know that you have traveled to the Ashes of Andraste and been found worthy; that you used those ashes to cure a dying man. I know that you could have slain Connor, but did not. I know that you could have participated in a ritual that consumed his mother's life, and that it would have been much easier than what you faced at the Tower, but you did not. I know that every night at camp, no matter how tired you were, you would check on each of us personally." It was only a handful of things, and Wynne could have gone on, but she stopped listing examples.

Akana stared at the ground, looking shamed, humiliated. It wasn't the effect Wynne had wanted to have; she could only hope that it was a sign that she was rethinking her position about recruiting Sylvia.

"I know that you love very intensely, and that you are loyal to a fault. I know that you are good, that you are capable mercy, and that you strive to be just in a world which isn't." Wynne paused, and leaned forward, reaching for Akana's hand. She took it, and the Warden allowed her to, though she didn't respond otherwise. "I know you want to save her, Akana. I know you despise how your people are treated, and that there are quite a few similarities when it comes to the treatment of mages. You would not be the remarkable person you are if you didn't want to fix it. But this is not the way."

Akana blinked, softened, and then looked to Wynne. This wasn't the face of a killer, nor the face of a Warden, nor even the face of a hero. She seemed small, fragile, and Wynne could see the child there, the youth that had been stamped out of her years before its time.

Her voice trembled: "Then what is?"

Wynne opened her mouth, but there were no words there. Akana needed her, wanted guidance, and this wasn't the reckless woman that spoke about blood-costs and necessity; she _wanted_ another way. She wanted to believe there was something better, even if life had shown her over and over that the only thing worth hoping for was that the ends would justify in the means, when all was said and done. And Wynne had nothing for her, no solution that was _really _a solution.

No one would.

In that moment, perhaps the only chance when it truly could have been won, Wynne lost the battle for Akana's obedience.

When she faltered, hesitated, Akana changed. The vulnerability disappeared, an iron barrier slamming shut around it. The worst part was the look in the Warden's eyes: not just anger, or conviction, but now the sting of betrayal, too. She had trusted Wynne, had been willing to lay aside the only moral code she'd ever followed, and Wynne had nothing to give her.

_What have I done,_ the mage thought, distantly, as Akana pulled away from her. _One shot, and I've squandered it._

"Syl stays," Akana said bluntly. "Maybe the Joining will kill her, if that's any consolation to you." The sharpness in her words did not escape Wynne, and they did bite at her indeed. Wynne might believe that the Blood Mages like Sylvia deserved death, but she wasn't a savage.

"It's not. That's not _justice_, Akana!"

"Yeah well," Akana turned away from her, shoulders squared. "Forgive me if I don't think that the Circle even knows the _sense_ of the word."

"Akana!"

"No!" The Warden whirled back, an index finger pointed rudely in Wynne's direction. "No! You're as bad as they are! The world doesn't get better on its _own_ Wynne! And I'm not feeding Syl to the wolves because she understood that too!"

"Syl _IS_ one of the wolves, Akana! The Tower was built to protect the world from people like her!"

"The Tower creates people like her!" Akana shouted, her extended hand balling into a fist. _"Just like the Alienage creates people like me!"_

Again, the Warden had dragged the discussion back to her, whether she realized it or not. _There's a lot you don't know about me, _Akana had said, and it bubbled back to the top of Wynne's mind now. She'd said she didn't feel guilty about killing the Arl's son. What, then? Because there was unmistakable regret in her tone now, and that unnerved Wynne.

"There is always a choice. There is _always_ a choice," Wynne repeated. "Syl chose-"

"Bullshit," Akana snarled, voice laden with disrespect. Her eyes were wild, and she had only one foot in reality, the other somewhere else. A memory? "A choice between freedom and slavery, between, between life and death, between _keeping_ and _losing_ isn't a choice at all-"

"Keeping and losing? Akana, what are you talking about?" The desolate, animal craze in those vivid irises turned on her, and Wynne drew in a quick, near-silent gasp. She knew that Akana went to somewhere deep whenever she fought, a lightless place filled with rage and the feral will to _live, live, live._ But she had never looked into the girl's eyes when she was in such a state. Usually she stood at a distance, bending the healing spells into the air around their companions.

_This is what her enemies see,_ Wynne thought, feeling her blood drain from her face. There was nothing else Wynne could argue with, no other weapons in her arsenal, and Akana would not listen to reason, not now. So she tried the only things left to her: outright refusal.

"You can't simply recruit Blood Mages, Akana! Be sensible!"

And whatever effect that last word had on her, Wynne didn't like it. The Warden smiled, slowly, eyes still looking at her but not _seeing_ her, not seeing anything at all. "You're right," she said, very quietly, and Wynne held her breath. The way she said it, Wynne knew better than to hope for anything good to follow.

If only she'd understood how bad it would get.

"You're right, Wynne. Why stop with the _Blood_ Mages?"

As simple as that, Wynne's world fell apart at the seams.


	23. The Shape of Things to Come: Part 2

**A/N**: Witchy Bee -- LOL. Had to kill her over it?

To be honest, so did I the first play through (I went back to a previous save). Even on Akana, though! However, it was mostly because I was doing my best to try to be nice to crazy!trapped!Cullen. I have a thing for guys in platemail.

Now, I _really_ am going to have to take a short hiatus for the next few days due to finals. If I'm posting, I shouldn't be, and you all should say very mean things to me in that case. But in all seriousness folks, if I'm not around, I haven't forgotten, I'm just sweating blood over the last week of school before winter break. =)

* * *

**Wynne**

_"So much you did. So much you did and so much more you would have done, aye, and all without a check or qualm, and so will the world end, I think, a victim of love rather than hate. For love's ever been the more destructive weapon, sure."  
— Roland, The Dark Tower_

_"Kill all my demons, and my angels might die too."  
— Tennessee Williams_

_

* * *

  
_

_"You're right, Wynne. Why stop with the __Blood __Mages?"_

Wynne couldn't speak. This was an awful nightmare, wasn't it? That Akana had lost her mind, been replaced with a ruthless, dangerous creature, eager to ravage the world she'd just finished saving. But Wynne had spent quite a bit of time in the Fade, and this was no dream. It had all the painful severity of the real and present world.

"The Circle doesn't want to give mages a choice? _I will._ Not much of one, granted -- but more choices are better than less. Right now it's what, Wynne, complete the Harrowing or die? Worse yet: don't do the Harrowing, be made into an unfeeling lump of meat, already dead but not yet aware of it? So why not? Mages don't want that? I'll take them. I can use them. It's not like the Joining is any less horrible than the option _you people_ have lined up for them-"

Suddenly, Wynne found her voice: "You cannot be SERIOUS Akana! Come to your senses, you foolish girl!" It'd been _decades _since she'd felt such gall, such indignation, such _fury._

But there, inside of it all, down in a part of her soul that Wynne had forgotten about, there was something else, too: a kernel of hope. She did the best she could to quash it; what Akana was suggesting could literally tear apart the gossamer-thin fabric of order that held Ferelden together.

"I am serious, Wynne. How many of them do you think it'll take? How many apprentices will I be able to whisk away, before the Chantry realizes that it can't keep doing what it's doing? Not that the life of a Grey Warden is glamorous or easy, but I'm sure _some_ of them -- the ones like Syl -- will prefer a life of freedom from the Circle, even if it means taking up the duty of a Warden."

_What if she's right?_ Wynne thought, hating it, pushing it away, but it came again: the voice of a much younger woman, one who was twenty, and realizing that she'd never leave, one who was thirty, and realizing she'd never have a child-

No! She was wiser than that, now. She knew better, even if Akana did not!

_"There's a lot you don't know about me, Wynne."_

"You'd destroy everything, then? You'd threaten your own hard-won stability for the sake of a Blood Mage?!"

"I'm no politician, Wynne. Stability is good, but it's not its own reward." And then Akana gave her a wicked grin, and Wynne's stomach turned. "If you wanna make an omelette..."

"Who _are_ you?" Wynne spat, her internal war still waging. If anyone could make things better, it was Akana, but oh, if anyone could _destroy it all_, that was also Akana. "Who are you?" She repeated, and this question did sneak through the Warden's defenses. Her mask of impassivity slipped.

"I'm going to do what I've always done, Wynne. I'm going to do what I have to."

"What did you mean, earlier?" Wynne narrowed her eyes: she could not let it rest any longer. "What did you mean, that there were many things I do not know about you? What have you done, Akana?"

Akana withdrew from her, literally and figuratively. "Only what I had to."

"No. What were you talking about?" _A choice between life and death, losing and keeping... _Wynne pressed the pads of her fingers to the surface of the table, bracing herself. "How did you survive, Akana? Why didn't the Archdemon kill you?"

"Luck, I guess," Akana muttered, but it was a lie, and that the Warden would bother only convinced Wynne that it was something terrible indeed. But how? What power would Akana even have access to, dark or not, that would allow her to escape that fate?

Something horrible was blooming in Wynne's mind, and now she couldn't turn away from it.

"Where did Morrigan go, Akana?"

"I don't know." That was the truth, yes, but the black cloud brewing in Akana's gaze was just more confirmation that Morrigan _did_ have something to do with it. Wynne had no doubt that the Witch of the Wilds had far less _scruples_ than she did, but how far, how far had she been willing to go, and to what end...

"What did you do?" Akana did not respond. She might have the sense not to cook up an elaborate lie, but she would not tell Wynne, either. But Wynne had been prepared for that. She'd been prepared since the night of the Feast.

_"It worked. I can't believe- I can't-" _Alistair had choked out atop Fort Drakon, when Akana's spirit had returned, his relief so intense that his entire body shook. What worked? They'd known something, hadn't they? Planned something. No, but Akana wouldn't, she could be heedless sometimes, or naive, or violent, but she wouldn't do anything irredeemable... would she?

"Tell me, Akana."

Stony, the Grey Warden stared at a place on the wall, a muscle jumping in her throat.

"As my sole boon for aiding you in your journeys, Grey Warden, I asked for the truth on any question of my choosing." Akana inhaled, lungs filling fast. "Do you remember?"

"Yes," she replied tersely.

"So then I ask: What did you do that made it possible for you to survive killing the Archdemon?"

Akana wouldn't even look in her direction. "Wynne, trust me. You don't want to know."

"I believe you're probably right about that. But I need to know, Akana, and you gave me your word."

The young woman side, chin dropping to her chest in defeat. "Then I guess this is it," Akana sighed, though whether it was to herself or to Wynne wasn't clear. "All right." She didn't sit down, just stood there, staring off into the not-so-distant past. "You were good to me, Wynne. Good to all of us. I won't forget it. Thank you." The Warden waited one more moment, her lungs holding in that single breath like it was the sweetest air she'd ever taste. Finally, she exhaled.

And then Akana told her.

Everything.

From her first taste of Blood Magic, when Morrigan had helped her become a Reaver, to just a short day or two ago, when she'd woken up after driving a sword through the Archdemon's skull.

Wynne felt like she was going to be sick. She wanted to deny it, to call Akana a liar, but it explained everything. From her uncanny and unrivaled fighting skills, to the fact that she was still drawing _breath_... Wynne could feel her heart breaking. The spiral had started before she'd even joined their company, then. The woman she'd thought she'd come to love, that'd been a lie. Not all of it, but it made it so much _worse_ that she knew Akana was capable of such goodness, yet this, this was _unforgivable._

"And Alistair agreed." It wasn't a question, really. Obviously he had. Akana had quickly brushed past Alistair's involved, minimizing it, which might actually have been cruelly humorous (he'd perhaps played a bigger part in this horror than Akana herself) if it wasn't so chilling. Of the two Grey Wardens, Alistair had always been the lighter one, and Wynne had noted on several occasions when the man had tempered Akana's wrath. If there was _any_ way in which Wynne could learn to accept what Akana had done, any sliver of redemption possible, it was forever erased knowing that Akana had pulled Alistair down with her.

"I didn't ask him to do it," Akana replied quietly. "I just told him Morrigan's offer."

"I can't believe you did this," Wynne's voice trembled, and she rose a hand to her forehead. "I can't believe you did this, least of all to him. How could you, Akana?"

"I didn't do anything _to_ him," Akana retorted, but there were equal parts anger and guilt in her voice. "He chose. And I would do the same for him." Her eyes flickered, and she added, darkly: "More."

"Listen to yourself," Wynne pleaded, but it was too late. Maybe she'd always been too late. How had she never seen this? Had she been such a fool? She was far too old to be so naïve. "Please, _think_ about the path you're on. What you've done..." Wynne was at a loss for words. The conception of the child alone was awful, but if it worked -- and now it seemed impossible to say it _hadn't_ -- they'd delivered an Old God back into the world, under the tutelage of someone like Morrigan, no less.

"I did what I had to," Akana said, for what seemed like the hundredth time since the conversation began. It was justification and explanation and excuse all at once. "Wynne, I couldn't, I couldn't-" She looked back to the mage for the first time since confessing, and Wynne knew that neither of them had told anyone else. Now, the healer would be among the small handful of people carrying this terrible secret. The burden already felt heavy upon her. "I love him so much. I was so _afraid._" The word came out half-strangled, rusty from lack of use.

"I know, dear. I know. Love is worse than hate, in that way. I tried to warn you, before. But I never thought you could... that were were capable of something like this." No: she'd been worried then that Akana would simply find that love wasn't something you could bully your way through. That Alistair would become King, and that she would do something rash and stupid and jeopardize their mission when things between them came to an end.

...and maybe she hadn't given the girl enough credit for her cunning: Alistair _wasn't_ King, and they were still together. Had that decision merely been an effort to keep him at her side, too? It was obvious that Akana had little love for Queen Anora. Wynne had thought that it'd been Akana taking a stab at being _responsible, _and doing what was right for Ferelden's future, not merely her own. But now…

Dear Maker, how far down did the rabbit hole go?

"Please, Wynne. I'm not a bad person," Akana said softly, and Wynne realized that they both knew what came next. She shouldn't waste any more time. Pushing herself up, the old mage straightened her robes.

"I don't know what kind of a person you are anymore, Akana." It hurt to say the words, to see the Warden's shoulders slump, but they were true. Besides, Wynne could no longer spare her feelings. Wynne could no longer spare her anything. She moved towards the door.

Akana didn't reach out to touch her, because doing so would have been too much a violation. But she pleaded, desperately: "Please, Wynne, _please_, please don't go."

Wynne realized that it was the first time Akana had ever begged for anything in her life. It tore her heart in two, but she couldn't stop. She had to go. She could no longer be a part of this, be a part of whatever this woman was turning into right before her eyes.

And then, when Wynne thought it couldn't become any harder, Akana fell to her knees in supplication. The only time Wynne had seen her on her knees rather than her feet was when the warrior was in the process of getting back up to fight -- and she never stayed in the position long. "Please Wynne, I'm begging you. _Stay._ I need you. _Please._" She turned her palms up, the universal symbol that said: I carry no weapons. I am unthreatening. Unarmed.

Believing that was a mistake Wynne could not afford to make again.

Wynne stepped around the woman, feeling a part of her die inside as she did it. Akana actually _whimpered_, a noise she'd never heard come from the Warden before. Over and over, Wynne repeated in her mind: _You must. You must. You must. _She put one hand on the door, and knew that when she walked out of it, there would be no coming back. No putting things as they were.

"My father told me once," Akana pressed, her words still needy and thick with anxiety, "when I got into a fight and broke another girl's nose for teasing Shianni. After sending me to bed without dinner, he came and told me he was proud of me, too. _'Kill all my demons,'_ he said, _'and my angels might die too.'_"

Wynne stopped. This was, without a doubt, the hardest thing she'd ever had to do in her entire life. Because part of her knew that Akana was right; she still loved her, and loving her meant loving the dark spots too.

"Where will you go?" Akana asked, timidly, as if trying not to allow herself to hope.

Steeling herself, closing off every avenue of compassion in her soul, Wynne answered. "The Tower."

"Why?" The heartache in the Warden's voice was an awful thing to hear.

"To defend it. From you." With that, Wynne twisted the doorknob, released herself from the room. There was a strange, keening sound behind her, as the Warden began to weep. It took every ounce of willpower she had to keep walking away.

_The first tears since her mother died,_ Wynne thought, and hated herself. But she kept walking, propelled herself forward, pushing towards whatever Fate's hand would deliver next.

Akana's sobs followed her out, and Wynne did not look back.


	24. No One Suspects the Drunkard

**A/N:** Firstly, thank you to everyone who sent warm wishes for the finals! I wrapped up my last exam a little while ago, and I thought I'd post something to celebrate. =) It's a bit short, but at least it's from a new perspective, right? Also, thank you to the non-account reviewers!

Shadowlore: Totally keep going with your story! I find the best inspiration on the Dragon Age boards sometimes.

jts: Your favorite? Oh man, that's so much pressure! But really, thank you! Also, congratulations -- you were the 100th reviewer. =D

Witchy Bee: LOL. Forgot to take the SATS? Ouch.

I'm going to be going back home for winter break, so the next couple days may be sparse depending on how hectic things are. Apparently the eastern seaboard is gonna get rocked with snow. =x We'll see.

* * *

**Oghren**

_"For fools rush in where angels fear to tread."  
— Alexander Pope_

_

* * *

  
_

So the two lads fought. So what? If they thought they were the first lug-heads to squabble over a lass, well, that just showed how damned lug-headed they were, didn't it?

Not that he blamed them. If they were gonna fight over a pretty face, might as well be one attached to a woman who could twist 'em both into knots. That's how women were meant to be. Any hot-blooded dwarf could tell you that, even if so many of the limp-spined men of the surface world hadn't figured it out yet. They needed their ladies to be dainty and weak so that they could feel strong.

Which was,really, a load of bronto-crap. A _steaming_ load of it.

If Akana had been born a dwarf, then the two men might have had something to worry about, because _he'd_ have shown them how you won a girl's heart. As it was, Akana might have been his _type,_ but she wasn't his _size_, and so they just had to duke it out between themselves. And they probably would have, if Leliana hadn't cut in. What a mother hen that Bard could be. Probably not as bad as Wynne, who always managed to ruin his _fun_, but-

Oghren's eyes slid over to the door. He must have been sobering up, because his vision was only doubled. The twin doors weaved woozily side to side. Behind them, two Akanas were currently chatting with two Wynnes. And as removed from interpersonal drama as the Berserker was -- a place he found fit him just fine, because no one ever asked the drunk guy to listen to their problems -- even he knew that something bad was happening back there. Akana was a good girl, and she'd swallowed up his fighting lessons in such gulping bites that it was a wonder she hadn't _choked_ on them, but damn, she was _not smart._

He knew, because neither was he. Took one to know one, right?

Recruiting Blood Mages was about as far away from _smart_ as you could get. But it took _balls_, and she had _those._ Well, figuratively. At least he was pretty su-

No, he was sure she was one-hundred-percent female. She wouldn't have been half as crazy otherwise. Or half as disarming.

Anyway. Back to the point: Akana's skull was thicker than the walls of an Orzammar bank, and her spine was twice as strong. The chances that she'd go back on her word with that Blood Mage? Heh. That wasn't a nug he was betting on at the races.

Everyone around him was in a supreme state of agitation. Leliana had frayed the sleeve of her dress into bits, fingers tattering at it while she stared at the door. Alistair glared at the rug beneath his couch, and his temple was beating his frustration with such rhythmic accuracy that you could have told time with it.

Even Zevran, always so cool and contained, was barely holding it together. Sure he _stood _perfectly still, not so much as a strand of blonde hair out of place, but anyone with two eyes and half a brain (specifications which Oghren met, barely) could see that he was _boiling_ underneath it all. If he wasn't, he wouldn't be trying so damned hard to _hide_ it, would he?

Oghren himself didn't feel too out of sorts. Akana was a warrior, a Berserker like him (and something else that he definitely didn't teach her, but which was just as nasty, if not moreso). He'd taught her to let her rage out; something else had taught her to wield hate itself. In any case, she would do as she would do. She raised her fist? Cities would fall. She wanted a Blood Mage as a Warden? She'd get it. Trying to stand in the way of that, for whatever reason, was even dumber than her doing it in the first place.

They could hear elevated voices from time to time, but it was hard to tell exactly what was being said. Then things went all deadly soft, and it wasn't much longer after that when the door opened. Alistair and Leliana jumped to their feet, and even unshakable Zevran started, body jerking upright from his leaning position.

_Well damn, if everyone's gonna stand,_ the dwarf huffed to himself, but got to his feet. Wynne walked out, and he had to say, as unruffled as he'd been... the look on the old biddy's face was like jumping into freezing lake without your skivvies. She'd put on ten years since she walked into that room, and when you were Wynne's age, you couldn't really afford to be pissing decades down the drain.

Wynne walked into the middle of them and stopped before Alistair, who was blocking her path.

"Let me by," the mage said, her voice weak and heartbroken.

"This is it, then?" The Templar asked angrily. "Akana stands up for one Blood Mage, and you turn your _back_ on her?"

Wynne looked into Alistair's eyes, and her face hardened. Oghren was pretty sure he'd never really seen the old lady get mad, but she sure was now. The kind of finger-shaking, _shame on you _type of anger that the elderly did so well. "What you've done you will _never_ be clean of, Alistair. Don't let her cloud your judgment any further."

Well Oghren had no idea what all _that_ was about, and from the surprised look on Leliana's face, and the calculating one on Zevran's, neither did they. Alistair, on the other hand, knew exactly what Wynne meant, and jerked back like she'd reached out and slapped him. Whatever he might have said to her in reply though, they'd never know, because that's when they heard it.

Crying. Not just crying, either, but great heaving _sobs. _And they were coming from the room Wynne had just left.

There was no one else in there but Akana, but really, that couldn't be right. Everyone knew that girl didn't cry for _nothing. _Everyone seemed to be thinking the same thing, too, because no one even moved to _breathe. _Except Wynne: she was entirely immune to the paralyzing effects of hearing the toughest lass in the world bawling her eyes out. The mage stepped around Alistair, and went on her way. And with that, she was gone.

Another heartbeat passed, then two, and when the wracking cries didn't stop, everyone seemed to jump into action. Alistair charged towards the door, which was expected.

Zevran did too, which _wasn't._ Leliana caught the elf by the arm, holding him back. The Assassin turned on her, sharply, all fangs and slitted eyes, but Leliana didn't let go. It was amazing, the things people didn't think you noticed just because you were the type of person to fall asleep in your own vomit. Like now, for instance: the way the Bard's eyes were wide, her jaw ajar in appalled disbelief.

_Too far,_ that look said. _You aren't the one that goes to her now. How can you not know better? You've crossed the line._

Zevran looked like he might shove her back, might still chase after Alistair's heels. But he did, at least, regain himself. He shook her grip roughly from his arm, and then began walking towards the exit where the mage had passed only moments before.

"Where are you going?" Leliana demanded in an urgent whisper.

"To go see a certain failed assassin," Zevran replied without looking back, his voice cold enough to crack a suit of platemail like a bunch brittle, dried out twigs. "We have something in common, after all."

The sound of _that _made Oghren almost pity the dumb root who'd pulled a knife on Akana. Almost. Then Zevran was gone, and it was just him and Leliana. She gave one last, long look towards the doorway. Alistair had closed it, almost all the way, but they could still hear the crying, even though it was muffled now. Then she turned towards him.

"I believe I'm in dire need of a strong drink," she remarked.

"Don't gotta tell me twice," Oghren nodded. "Come on, I know where they keep the good stuff."


	25. Together

**A/N: **I think I assured people there would be a bit of fluff incoming, and here it is. My way of trying to make up for being pretty hard on the characters the past couple of chapters. Don't expect it to last, of course. ;)

Non-account reviewers-

Witchy Bee: I understand not using an account any more, I have one that I've abandoned. ;)

Lea: Lol! I did the same, to be honest. I got so mad when he dumped me that I was like, "Screw doing the _right_ thing, my character has done too much for this ugly little continent NOT to get the guy!" And yes, some fanfic can be totally awesome. A lot of the stuff on the Dragon Age boards here at is really, really good -- the quality seems to be better than for a lot of the more popular fandoms. Definitely worth digging around!

Shadowlore: If you do, let me know! =)

* * *

**Akana**

_"Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?"  
- The Joker; Batman_

_

* * *

_

They were in the courtyard, now. The moon hung pale and full above them; it would still be a few more hours till daybreak. She'd thought that she'd still be stuck in that masquerade by this time. Funny how things worked out, wasn't it?

She'd told Alistair that she needed some fresh air, and he'd brought her here. It was the perfect gesture: like being outside, without having to deal with anyone coming up to them. They walked, hand in hand, amongst the small orchid. Akana was calmer now than she had been, but it wasn't because of any tranquility of the soul -- she had simply cried until she couldn't any more.

Wynne was gone. The only person who'd ever come close to being a mother to her, and Akana had told Wynne her deepest, darkest secret. The thing that ate her alive when she gave it any thought. The truth that was worse than any lie. Wasn't love and kinship, or even _friendship_, supposed to withstand that sort of thing? If it didn't, what good was it, anyway? Why spend so much time caring for her companions, if they'd turn away so easily?

Was she that much of a monster?

Alistair put her hand around his waist so that he could wrap his arm across her shoulders. He was warm, and they were still in their formal attire, as abused as it was. Akana leaned against him, not caring if it seemed weak or childish. He hadn't turned away. If anyone else was right here in the dark with her, it was Alistair. Just like it'd been from the beginning.

Just like it would be in the end, when they knocked on the doors of the Dead Trenches.

Another curl of sorrow bulged in her throat, and Akana forced it back down.

"I don't blame you for recruiting her, you know that, right?" Alistair finally said, and they stopped walking. The air was milder than it'd been in months; Spring was on its way. The flowers hadn't yet bloomed, but there were tiny buds growing on the skeletal branches of the fruit trees around them. "I'm not exactly saying I'm eager to be _friends_ with her, but what makes a Grey Warden isn't the same stuff that makes a good mage."

Akana let her eyes drift up to him, granting him the barest touch of a smile. She didn't feel it, but it was a thing her mouth did whenever she was teasing him, whether out of playful joy or just habit. "Or a good Templar."

"Mm," Alistair smiled, quickly, and then nodded. "Or a good Templar. Besides, if you hadn't done it, who knows how many people would have died? The only people even wearing armor were Greagoir and the guards. All those other people would have been caught in the crossfire. It would have been horrible."

She stared ahead. Yes, it would have been bad. But she'd still have Wynne, probably. And that wouldn't be horrible at all.

"Not that that's a good enough reason to recruit somebody. Syl helped you when she didn't have to. She used Blood Magic to stop that assassin, when she could have let him get away and kept her cover. She didn't have to help heal you, either, but she did. And she listened to you when you told her not to hurt anyone."

Alistair, defending a Blood Mage? Whose benefit was this for? Akana shrugged. _Get to the point, _the gesture said.

"All I'm saying is, those are good qualities for a Warden. There have been worse options."

_Like Loghain,_ she thought to herself, knowing that was who Alistair had in mind. The wind, still wintry even as the seasons began to change, swept through them. The long slits at the sides of her dress welcomed its ice-cold grasp, and she shivered. Alistair patted himself, realized he wasn't wearing a jacket, and then began to unbutton his shirt. He'd gotten at least two undone before Akana realized what he was doing.

"Stop," she ordered, scowling.

"You're cold," he retorted, and kept going, looking down at his hands. She took his moving fingers in her palms, holding them, and he looked back to her. Their eyes met, and held, and the ache she saw there was a mirror of everything she felt. "I'm sorry, Akana. I'm so sorry."

It wasn't certain who pulled the other to whom, only that they drew together. He held her so close that it was practically crushing her, and gods, she only wanted it to be tighter still. Alistair rested his chin on her hair. "Do you regret it?" Akana asked, words barely escaping from his vice-like embrace. She could have been talking about anything, but he knew immediately what she was referring to.

"No," he replied firmly, without hesitation. "I regret that it was our only choice, but I would do it all over again if I had to. I don't care what she said to you, Akana. I love you. My moral well-being is my own to mind. This world is a better place with you in it. _My _world is a better place with you in it." If he sounded at all unsure, she didn't allow herself to hear it. Couldn't.

"That's good to know," Akana murmured, closing her eyes. Peace didn't come to her, but she imagined, held against Alistair in the dark of the courtyard, that she felt something like it.

"Do you regret it?" He asked tentatively. He brought a hand up to rub the back of her neck.

"No. Though sometimes I think I should. I... I have something to ask you. But I can't do it tonight. I can't handle it tonight." Slowly Alistair loosened his grip, holding her out at arm's length so he could catch her eyes.

"What is it?" Alistair asked, concerned. Akana arched an eyebrow, deadpan, and then he laughed genuinely. "Oh, that would be telling me tonight, wouldn't it?"

And Akana smiled, more truly now, because the sound of him laughing reached inside of her and wouldn't take '_No I'm sad go away_' for an answer. It put its warm and bubbly fingers into her guts and wriggled all grinning-silly, and yes, Akana wanted badly to leave the sadness behind. Locking her wrists behind his neck, Akana leaned up on her toes to kiss him, and he eagerly moved to meet her.

"Will I always get kisses for saying stupid things?" He asked, and gods, a girl could lose herself in all that love, couldn't she?

_You already have,_ a part of her insisted, dark and brooding and gruesome.

"Only when you're not expecting it," Akana replied, voice scratchy and sore from crying.

"Fair enough." His hand at the back of her neck moved up an inch or two, fingers twirling absently in her hair. Blood had dried into it, and his loving caresses made it pinch something awful, but Akana didn't say a word about that.

After a moment, Akana began to laugh. Not a bitter laugh, or a really happy one, but rather tired and a twinge amused. "What's so funny?" Alistair asked her, cocking his head to the side and smiling gently.

"The one part of my costume I liked, I lost. I most have dropped it when I got _shanked_ at the Queen's Coronation Ball." She snorted, even though she saw a glimpse of pain flicker across Alistair's eyes. _Too soon,_ Akana remarked to herself, but really, when had it ever been too soon for her to joke about her own death? She'd done it plenty of times before."And after all that time letting Leliana dress me up like an over-sized doll, the only dance I had was with an murdering revolutionary Apostate. You know, I thought things would be better, after we saved the world. My life still _sucks._"

Alistair did laugh then, brunt, and pulled away from her further. His hands ran down her arms until they found hers. "You're right, m'Lady. I'm sure the excitement has been far too much for you."

"Hey now..."

"Wouldn't you rather just settle in, somewhere? Never have to lift a weapon again? A finger? We could buy a household of servants, you know. Not _elves_, of course, but real servants!"

"You're teasing-"

"And all these people! These ungrateful, horrid people! I'm sure your problems with the nobility -- and everyone _else_ for that matter -- can disappear. All you have to do," he grinned, and kneeled down in front of her, clasping her hands. "Is bow before the beautiful Queen Anora and pledge your undying allegiance. Maybe kiss her ring too, for good measure. Royalty _loves_ that."

Akana scowled at him. "Beautiful, huh?"

"Did I say beautiful? I meant _pale._ And, um, _human._" Akana have him a hard push, and already off-balance due to the kneeling, Alistair tumbled onto his side. When he tried to get up again, she pushed him right back down. "Oof! Hey, once was enough! I learned my lesson!"

"I could have made _you_ King, you know. Then everyone would _have_ to love me."

Alistair snorted. "_Should-a would-a could-a?" _And he tried to get up again. By this time, though, he'd caught on. When she went to give him another shove, he lunged forward, grabbing her around her hips and pulling her down with him. Down on _top_ of him.

They had rough-housed around plenty of times. _"You two are like mongel Mabari puppies! Take your tumbling and slobbering elsewhere!"_ Morrigan had shouted at them once, driving them off with a few well-placed, if low-powered zaps of electricity. Now, though, Akana wasn't wearing her armor or her usual leather breeches, and Alistair's hands slid up her thighs until he was grabbing the widest part of her hips, all bare skin save for a rather _lacy _pair of undergarments.

Alistair seemed completely surprised at this chain of events, and Akana watched him blush. The red-pink heat moved down even to his chest, where his shirt was still half unbuttoned. Like he'd been caught at something devious, Alistair froze. Then he gave her a cheeky grin. "You know, I do like your armor, m'lady Warden, but you should wear dresses _far_ more often."

Akana brought a loose fist back, and Alistair cringed appropriately, giggling like a _boy_ while he covered his face with his arms. His torso and hips bucked under her and she instinctively tightened her legs around him, not to be unseated. Alistair, a certain distinct part of Alistair, took notice.

As if realizing himself, he shifted again, trying to manage some sort of polite distance, which was poor joke with her straddling him. Akana crossed her arms and looked down at him, an eyebrow raised. With perfect balance she kept herself upright, barely swaying as he moved around. "You're just making it worse for yourself," she finally told him matter-of-factly. And he was. The squirming wasn't exactly getting him anywhere, and the friction...

"Well it's much less _distracting_ when you're wearing armor!" He retorted, feigning hurt pride.

"So I _shouldn't_ wear dresses?"

Alistair cursed, and then launched himself upright. She felt his abdomen tighten against her, and then she was in his lap, pressed close against him. The thin layer of frost that has settled over the grass melted against her legs, chilly and wonderful at once. "How about," Alistair said, eyeing her lips hungrily, "you wear whatever you want, and I just shut up?"

"You know I can't resist a plan that ends with you shutting up," Akana replied, and while he formed his rebuttal her lips collided against his. Both of them still had their eyes open, and he narrowed his at her. _I'll get you next time,_ that glare insisted, and Akana smiled against his mouth and deepened the kiss.

When they finally broke apart, warmer than they were before, Alistair stood. How he managed it, she wasn't really sure, but he scooped her up and pushed himself to his feet. He let her down after he stood, and she dropped the couple inches to the grass. They'd made a dewy dent several feet wide.

"We should go inside," Alistair advised, and put a hand on either one of her bare arms for warmth. She could feel the callouses there, as familiar as the ones on her own palms, where heavy gauntlets had toughened the skin. One hand was rougher than the other: his right hand, his sword hand. The other, the hand for his shield arm, was significantly softer. It was like being touched by two people at once. "Don't want you to catch a cold out here."

Akana rolled her eyes. "The nights at camp got far worse than this. At least until we stopped bothering even setting up your tent, and shared mine."

"Which would make it even _more_ of a shame for you to get sick now, when we've got a nice warm room with a big soft bed all to ourselves." He began to lead them back towards the castle, but Akana remained where she stood, and he turned back to her. "Is something wrong?"

Akana stared up at the sky. She hadn't looked at the stars in what felt like weeks, even if it'd only been a few days. The last time she'd really had the time to stop and gaze upon them was the night before the last battle.

_But it wasn't the last battle,_ she thought to herself, not sure how she felt about that. _Maybe there never _will _be a last battle for me. _Maybe that should have upset her, but in a way it was comforting. Like Soris had said: she wasn't made to go quietly into the night. Battle, at least, she understood. It helped keep all the crushing weight of guilt and introspection at bay.

"Akana?" Alistair stepped back to her, bringing her out of her trance. Though her heart was sore and she knew everything would only become more difficult from here, Akana smiled at him. _Steal the moments of happiness where you can_, Zevran had told her once. Of course, he'd probably been trying to weasel his way into her bed (out of the _principle_ of it more than anything else, she was sure). All the same, it was good advice, wasn't it? Akana wouldn't be able to turn her back on despair forever, but, well, she could _try._

So, with a flourish, Akana placed one leg out straight in front of and bowed over it. She'd seen quite a few of the noblemen do it, and she replicated the gesture with graceful ease. The Reaver smiled -- always with that same tiny bit of danger in it -- and extended her hand to Alistair. "Dance with me?" Well, okay, so it was probably supposed to be more flowery than that, but that was what came out.

Alistair looked at her skeptically. "You're joking, right? This is to get me back for making fun of you earlier."

Akana stuck out her bottom lip in a pout, and went to straighten her posture. "Well, if you don't want to-"

He didn't hesitate now, but reached forward and grasped her hand in his. Without another word he pulled her to him, and Akana fumbled for where she was supposed to put her hands. It wasn't like this was something she was _used_ to. The last time she'd had any practice dancing, if you didn't count the few moments with Syl, had been over six months ago.

She'd been alone with Shianni in her father's house, a week before her betrothed was supposed to arrive. They'd both been drunk and silly, and Shianni might have been celebrating her cousin's imminent marriage, but Akana had told her it was more mourning the death of freedom. Shianni had indulged her melodrama, and then when they could both barely stand after downing a what seemed like a barrelful of wine, she'd insisted that Akana learn a few standard dances for the reception. So Shianni had played the groom, and Akana the reluctant bride, and they'd danced until the room spun so badly that they ended up on the floor, snorting laughter.

A lifetime ago. Several lifetimes, if you counted how many times Akana had been physically dead and only barely returned to life.

Now she pressed one palm to Alistair's, her other hand on his shoulder. They stepped awkwardly at first, snickering at the ridiculousness of it all, but soon that fell away. Then they simply moved together, dressed in their expensive and bloodied clothes, dancing beneath the Maker's starry heavens.


	26. Dancing in the Dark

**A/N:** Okay, a few things to note here.

First, **rating change upcoming in the future.** I've been going back and forth with myself on this one, but I'm guessing that I'm probably already skirting the line on an M rating (for language). I'm not sure when exactly I'll end up writing something that makes me go "This DEFINITELY needs to be M," but I've determined I'd rather write without worrying about springing a rating change on everyone down the road, and warn you all ahead of time. This also means that if you've been reading _The Shape of Things to Come_ from the main Dragon Age page on , it might disappear in the future (you'll have to switch your settings to View All or whatever it is). So I guess I suggest either signing up for the Alerts, or bookmarking the page if you don't have an account. =)

Second, could you guys help me out? //Edit: **Lady Lessien** answered my question (which was what is Anora's handmaiden's name, apparently it's Erlina). Thanks!

Third, this is a pretty sizeable chapter because I haven't been updating too frequently lately. Partly this is due to my weird schedule over winter break (spending a lot of time with friends I don't see in college), as well as the fact that I just recently started playing Baldur's Gate. I never played it way back when, and a friend talked me into it. For anyone that's played: I'm romancing Ajantis, but goddamn, he is _no_ Alistair. But anyways, felt kind of guilty, plus this weekend is looking busy too. =x

Non-account reviews:

_Witchy Bee:_ Yeah, sometimes folks need a break! Plus, it makes it so much crueler when Bad Stuff happens. ;)

_Lea:_ Yeah, Bioware went above and beyond with the characters here. They are probably some of my favorite videogame characters ever!

**PS:** Forgot to add -- Happy Holidays, folks, for those of you who celebrate!

* * *

**Zevran**

_You can't start a fire,  
You can't start a fire without a spark.  
This gun's for hire,  
Even if we're just dancing in the dark.  
— Dancing in the Dark; Bruce Springsteen_

* * *

Zevran splashed cold water on his face for what must have been the dozenth time. He was in the solitude of his room at the estate, standing in front of the simple wooden vanity at one end. Leaning forward, both hands planted firmly on either side of the water basin, he let the rivulets of water drip from cheeks, his chin. A few wet locks of hair plastered themselves to his skin, and he gasped, the sound deep and jagged.

When the last of the droplets fell from his face, Zevran opened his eyes, staring into the mirror before him. The only light in the room came from a window with the curtains drawn back. The moon was full, and that was all the illumination he needed. He'd lived his entire life in the shadows, and his eyes had long since adjusted. The darkness was just another world to him, as easy to navigate as daylight.

The face that stared back at him was his own, but not his own. Something had changed. He couldn't look into the reflection for long, that sickly _knowing_ coiled in his belly like a viper. Once again, he cupped his hands in the frigid water of the bowl, and brought them to his face. As if he could wash away that new sensation, as if it were nothing more than a layer of grime. If he only scrubbed hard enough, he could get back to where everything was so much _simpler._

- - - - -

"You're here to torture me, then?" The man slurred around a busted lip. He was shackled to the corner of one of the most dismal cells Zevran had ever seen, and that was something of an accomplishment. It wasn't until the elf came closer that he realized how _young_ the man was.

He was fairly handsome, too: a strong, well-fed body, a thick mane of brown hair, and a face that might have been attractive before the guards had turned it into little more than lumpy, raw meat. Whether the young man's captors had beaten him out respect for the Queen, or love for Akana, or just general sadism, Zevran didn't know. He didn't care, either.

"I've already told them everything. I did it for Loghain's memory, and I'll tell anyone that wants to know!" The man probably couldn't even see Zevran properly. The only sources of light were a few sputtering candles hanging along the main walkway, and what was more, one of his eyes had been completely shut by the swelling of some blow. The flesh had turned the color of wine, and blood had caked across the entire side of his face. Zevran wondered how much of it was Akana's. "Loghain was a hero, a true hero, and she killed him!"

"Actually, she did not. She allowed her fellow Grey Warden to."

"She's his Commander!" The young man, the boy really, snapped back. "She gave the order! But I'd kill himtoo, had I the chance!"

Zevran smirked in the darkness, leaning against one of the iron bars of the cell. His fancy white shirt had been completely ruined by Akana's blood, and even the leather pants would probably never be the same. He'd discarded his mask too, the satin permanently stained. "Tut-tut-tut. If only you _had_ killed Alistair first, before attempting to kill Akana. I may have been trained as a death-dealer, but I'm sure I would have learned quite a few fresh ways to inflict unbearable woe upon an opponent. Even the soul-eating demons of the Fade would have picked up a few tricks, after what Akana did with you."

"I'm not afraid of death," the boy shot back, but Zevran could hear the edge of terror in his voice, even if it was buried under naive courage.

"Akana would do far worse than kill you," Zevran replied with a shrug.

"Really? So what are you here to do? Interrogate me? Chat? I don't know who you are, but if you're one of her friends, you deserve to die as much as she does!"

_More,_ he thought to himself, pushing off from the bars. The boy's chains rattled as he moved, sensing Zevran coming towards him. "I have questions, yes. Questions that I'm sure the guards didn't think to ask you. Like, for instance, how a boy barely into his shaving years got a hold of a vial of Blackheart's Nectar."

The short intake of breath convinced Zevran of what he already knew: the guards _weren't_ aware of the poison -- or at least not of how rare and deadly it was. The boy knew something of it, though the thought that he'd acted alone in this, given his access to something as _priceless_ as Blackheart's Nectar, was absurd. Zevran reached out, gently taking the boy's chin in one hand. He flinched away, but Zevran tightened his grip.

This was him, then? This was the callow youth that had come closer than an Archdemon in ending Akana's life? This boy had caused all that trouble with a cheap iron blade, coated in the most lethal poison ever crafted?

This was the man who'd driven a stake between them, that'd driven Wynne off, that'd made Akana _cry?_

"So a-ask your q-questions, then." The boy spat, trembling. Zevran could feel his pulse racing under his bruised skin.

"Unfortunately for you," Zevran whispered back, voice all honey-velvet-venom, "I didn't come for answers tonight." And then he squeezed, digging his fingers into the battered flesh of the boy's face. The boy tried to remain stoic, but eventually he whimpered, and as bits of tissue and blood sank underneath Zevran's fingernails, that soft noise turned into a yelp.

The guards had already worked the would-be killer over, and Zevran would have preferred to have gotten there first. He'd make do with what he had, though. After all, all of those bruises would nicely mask his more _efficient_ tactics.

Slowly, methodically, Zevran sipped the boy's pain as one sipped sweet pollen from a honeysuckle flower.

- - - - -

He'd never had illusions that he was a good person. That wasn't what had changed. Nor did he think he'd forgotten any of the knife-turns, the splinters under the nails, the needles in tear ducts... he hadn't forgotten any of the tools of his trade. An Assassin knew how to kill, but when called for, an Assassin also knew how to make a target wish they were already dead. That hadn't changed.

Zevran looked again into the mirror. He couldn't keep doing this. He was running out of water, and really, he might as well get up the nerve to _drown_ himself in the little he had left. It would be over quicker that way.

Making a disgusted noise in his throat, her spun away from the vanity. His hands moving at a lightening pace, he tore away his clothing, changed into fresh garments that weren't so _filthy._ He wished he could change his skin along with them, be clean of the horrible jumble of his feelings. When he was clothed again, he went straight for the door, not allowing himself to so much as glance towards the mirror.

Zevran passed Alistair heading back to their room, though the Templar didn't notice him. This was largely due to the fact that Zevran didn't want to be noticed. The man had a small, personal smile on his face, and Zevran moved by him as silent as a house cat. The fact that Alistair wasn't wearing a _shirt_ was something rather odd, but Zevran wasn't going to stop and inquire. The grass stains on his back were direction enough for where to head.

It wasn't long before Zevran found her, though he was slightly surprised about _where_ she was. Akana had climbed into one of the sturdier looking of the thin trees, and was sitting on one of the lower branches. Her feet kicked ever so slightly, idly, and she leaned her shoulder against the trunk as she stared at the sky. She had Alistair's missing shirt draped over her narrow shoulders.

Suddenly, Zevran wasn't sure what he'd come here for. He was angry, and he wanted to take it out on _her_, but what kind of foolish notion was that? What had he become? Some hormonal adolescent? Ready to dash off and point his finger at someone he cared for? That cared for him?

_But that's just the problem, isn't it, Zevran?_ _That she cares for you, but not quite enough?_

No. He had never asked anything from her, and she had never asked anything from him. Their friendship had not been forced by the bonds of duty or obligation.

Now he watched her, looking almost child-like on her perch, lost in thought. She wasn't smiling, or even staring sternly -- her face was open, the expression of the quietly grieving. The loss of her mentor, Wynne, had been devastating. The sound of Akana's sobs-

Zevran felt that awful knot twist again in his stomach. That had been the main reason for his visit to the boy in the dungeon. Not because he'd tried to kill Akana, which seemed like a fairly common intention. Not because he'd almost succeeded, even, because almost-succeeding had also happened from time to time. Zevran had tortured him, over and over and over, because he had made Akana cry. Because he had _hurt_ her in a way that was, frankly, unacceptable.

Remembering his manners, Zevran found a dry looking twig, and properly crushed it under his boot. Akana didn't look down, too absorbed in her sadness. For a moment, Zevran wondered if he should leave, let her be, but he wanted to tell her...

Tell her what?

That he was sorry? That she'd survived something that made her as much as divine power to the Crows as Andraste was to the Chantry? That he'd plucked out all of her attempted murderer's eyelashes and made hair-thin cuts on his eyelids, so that every blink would bring another swell of pain?

Mmph.

"I know you're there," her voice floated to him, and he look up sharply. "Knew before you stepped on the branch."

"Really? And I thought I was being my usual, sneaky self." He replied amiably, though he really _had_ thought-

"You're upwind. Something wrong?" She asked, voice softer than usual.

He _was_ upwind. Which was a rookie mistake, and one that he'd have been lashed for mercilessly if he were still amongst the Crows. That she assumed something must be amiss for him to make such a mistake only pressed the point home. Deftly, he avoided any committal answer. "Does that mean I've developed an odor? I should say, I've been privy to the rather wonderful bathhouses in Denerim, and I shouldn't think-"

"You don't smell bad," she overrode him, still with the faraway lilt. "Like I think a desert would smell. Dry sand and cloud-to-cloud lightning. But I don't know anything about deserts, so." Then, after a pause, she added: "And blood. We all have that smell, though."

He didn't know how to reply to that, but somehow it was better than anything he'd expected her to say. If anything, he'd been prepared for a jibe, a joke, something playful and biting and without any real substance to it. Zevran walked towards the tree, until he was on the other side of the trunk from her.

Though he had the sense not to walk _under_ her dress, his eyes did flick over to the exposed stretch of her leg. The cut of the dress meant that only a sliver of flesh -- however high it rose -- was ever visible when the woman wearing it was standing. Now though, with gravity pulling it downwards, the effect was less sexy noblewoman and more Kocari shamaness. The small tears and blood stains added to that effect. Truly, he preferred the latter anyway: Zevran had seen enough slinky, carefully provocative dresses for one lifetime.

He was also close enough to spot the marks of faded scars on her legs, and wondered if any of them were from the day he had ambushed her. He'd had two lines of archers set up, and he distinctly remembered Akana's legs being shot out from under her -- at least until Morrigan had broken whatever spell she was casting to offer up a bit of healing. Zevran wanted to touch the scars, gently, and apologize, but he simply put his hand against the rough bark of the tree instead.

This was what she did to him, when they were alone. His anger had drained out like the festering boil it was, and slowly he nursed the wound. Tranquility washed up around him, and he let out a breath he'd been holding since the masquerade began.

He wondered if she felt the same. Akana was mostly only ever rage and action and teases, but she had a stillness inside her soul that she allowed to come out when she was alone.

And when she was with him.

_And Alistair, too. _However, Zevran wasn't so sure. As far as he knew, she did all that she could to share only happiness with the Templar. Perhaps she thought that Alistair couldn't handle her sorrow, perhaps she simply didn't like inflicting it upon him. She wouldn't be the first woman to try to protect her love by shielding him even from parts of herself. But with Zevran... with Zevran there was no shield. He didn't know if this meant that she felt safer with him. That she found him less likely to judge her -- and he probably was.

Either that, or she simply didn't care as much about what Zevran thought. Which was a slightly colder prospect, but not unlikely.

"A Sovereign for your thoughts, my Lady?"

"That's a little much, isn't it?"

"Not at all," he replied, and then hunkered down, nestling his back against the tree trunk. He could have climbed it easily enough, but he wasn't eager to test both his and Akana's weight against its branches. It was a courtyard tree after all, not one of the ironbark towers they'd seen in the Brecilian Forest.

Akana shrugged. "I was just thinking that I don't think I can do it again."

"And what is that?" Zevran craned his neck, glancing up at her. The moon made her halo of bright hair look almost ethereal, some benevolent spirit of the Fade.

"Lose one of you." He blinked, and nodded, though it felt like a warhammer had been dropped onto his chest. What could he say to that? The reality was that without the war to hold them together, everything was shifting. "I mean, you're all free to come and go," Akana quickly added, and he knew it was for his sake. It shouldn't have stung, either, because he'd made it perfectly clear that he didn't prefer to stay in any one place for very long -- but it did.

How quick she was to open the door and let him out... But that wasn't fair, either. "It's just I can't lose any of you. Like I lost Wynne. It's stupid. I feel like a little girl just starting to realize that you can't be best friends forever with everyone, even if you want to."

She pulled one knee to her chest so that she could rest her chin on it, the motion as effortless as if she'd been seated on flat ground. "I am sorry," Zevran offered, because he _was_, and there was little else he could do. Akana heaved a great sigh, and he could tell that the sound was a signal that she was putting her armor back on, the set she wore everywhere.

"Coming down now. Keep your eyes to yourself or you'll lose 'em."

Zevran laughed under his breath, and stood quickly. "Here." He reached his hands out to her. Akana arched an eyebrow at him, making a face, and rolled her eyes: _Like I can't just jump? Think I'll twist an ankle?_ He was still half-expecting her to give him a swift kick to the jaw -- her boots were at a prime angle for it -- when she leaned down to put her hands in his anyway.

Her body slid along him as he shifted his hands to her waist, gently placing her on the ground. Zevran watched her eyes carefully, waited for something, some out of place reaction, but there was nothing. She didn't grab him by the collar as she had in Redcliffe, didn't drag him to her with all that feverish intensity...

She was just herself. Just Akana. As it had always been. As it would be. Even while she was physically pressed against him, his hands on her hips and their lips mere inches away, she was immune to the charms that had served him so well with other women. But wasn't that half the reason he was so fond of her? Or at least what had allowed him to grow fond of her in the first place?

Then Akana frowned, concerned. "My side still hurts," she confessed. It was the only time he'd ever heard her seriously complain about a physical pain -- at least one that wasn't laden with curses about magic. "Wynne healed it, earlier, before... before we started talking. But it still aches. I've never had something hurt after Wynne had tended to it. My insides feel snarled."

Zevran opened his mouth, prepared to tell her about the poison, about Blackheart's Nectar, about how she _should be dead_, again, but instead what came out was: "I'm sure you just need some rest, my Lady. Let me walk you back to your room?"

He could just as easily tell her in the morning. She'd suffered enough confusion for one day.

Akana blinked, and nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yeah I'm sure you're right." She pulled away from him, and the cold filled the place where her body had been. Zevran fought the shiver that tiptoed across his skin, as light and unwelcome as a crawling spider. As they walked, slowly, Akana kept her head dipped. It was nothing like her usual chin-up, eyes-straight posture. "I never even got to see his face. I was out of it before I could even turn around."

She was worried, and she had every right to be. The lovely Warden might have shrugged off _his_ attempt to kill her (and all of the men and women Loghain had sent while he'd been alive), but that was the thing about assassination: when it worked, it _worked._ He'd had the wrong idea in ambushing her, and if he had to do things over again -- not that he would accept the deal now, but, _hypothetically_ speaking -- he'd never face her outright. He could have simply wormed his way into her good graces, traveled with her for several days, and then done the deed one night at camp. The only thing that might have stood between him and his target, in that case, would have been her Mabari.

Ah, but how could he have known that in battle she was a whirlwind of destruction, and in friendship, a trusting, gracious soul? He was glad to have failed and learned the error of his ways.

"That is the way of most assassinations, yes," Zevran replied, trying to be as gentle as possible. There was no use in pretending he wasn't an expert on the subject. His track record was quite good, if you eliminated the outliers -- of which, Akana was the most exceptional. "The successful, or near-successful ones in particular."

"It was horrible," Akana muttered, and his long ears twitched to hear the residual discomfort there. He'd never heard her admit fear, and this was as close to a confession of such as she might ever come. "I couldn't do anything. All my strength and speed and ability... it was useless. I've never been in a physical fight before that was over so _quickly. _I'd lost before I even knew I was in real danger."

Zevran did not make it a habit to feel guilty for his past, or his training, but now he did taste the harshness of remorse on the back of his tongue. Not a great amount -- he did not feel sorry for the lives he had taken -- but enough that he wished Akana would never have been made to feel so powerless. What irony, that she should confide in him. But ah, perhaps that was _why_ she was telling him this.

Who would understand better?

"Did you see him? The guy who stabbed me? By the time everything was worked out with Syl they were already carting him away, and then Wynne..." Akana trailed off, looking up at him. They passed out of the courtyard and back into the castle, and he held the heavy door for her. After shutting it behind them both, he nodded.

"I did."

"Who was he? I don't think he was a Crow. I mean, the stab itself was fucking clumsy, even if the blade was sharper than sin. I felt it scrape on one of my ribs." Zevran smiled at that, firstly because he welcomed the familiar blunt tone, and secondly because she was acknowledging the level of skill for which the Antivan Crows strove.

"Mm. You are correct; he was no Crow." Many of the candles in the halls were not lit -- on clear nights when the moon shone with such conviction, the servants preferred to open windows instead. Except for their hushed voices they were almost silent, her footfalls making only slightly more noise than his. Not that she couldn't learn to move like a shadow: Zevran was sure he could have taught her, if she was willing to learn. As it stood, she preferred when enemies knew she was approaching.

"So what then? Just a crazed man out for revenge on Loghain's behalf, and that's it?" Akana sounded almost disappointed, and he supposed that wasn't too unthinkable. The man (he didn't mention how _young_ the would-be killer was) was nothing very special, and if he'd succeeded, he'd have made a name for himself in just a few short minutes that would last for all of history. She, on the other hand, would have been dead by the hand of an amateur, after surviving so much.

"I cannot say for sure." Another opportunity to bring up the poison, to mention that he must have had powerful backers indeed. Another time he let it go. Akana sighed, and the weariness of it tugged at his heart. It felt like ages since the hound had summoned him to her room, since seeing her lying in bed with Leliana. She'd been so lazily happy, even if she was squinting through the ache of a hangover. Such comforts – soft pillows, fine sheets, the option to lie in bed until noon – were only the least of what Akana deserved. And to repay her for her service to Ferelden, she'd already nearly been murdered.

At least in Antiva they'd have had the respect to give her a _year_ to enjoy herself. There were certain principles one should follow, even in (perhaps especially in) assassination. After all, being assassinated on the anniversary of your greatest accomplishment could be something of a point of honor too, could it not?

"I don't really want to meet him," she grumbled. "I know everyone probably expects me to gut him and hang him with his own intestines-" Zevran filed the thought away for later. "-but I don't even want to _deal_ with it. I mean, if I'd had the chance I would have killed him then and there. After the fact it just seems pointless. He failed. Should he get to live? Probably not, but I don't really give a damn either way."

Zevran felt a twinge of anger simmer through him. How could she be so flippant about her life?

_Hypocrisy isn't becoming, Zev._

"And should he live to seek out a second opportunity to strike?"

Akana glanced away, shrugging. "I killed Loghain. I've alive. I won. He lost. I'm just saying, I've learned my lesson. I'll be more careful."

Zevran clenched his jaw a little more tightly. "And what if you are not his next target? What if he, or his fellows should there be any, decide that you are too hard to kill? What if they move on to simply killing your friends?"

Akana blinked, and she frowned. "You think he'd do that?"

"If you can't kill someone, killing the things they love is a close second." The words sounded bitter, stinging even his own ears to hear them.

She went back to looking at her boots, and he was sorry to have said anything. "I guess I didn't think about that."

Zevran softened, and reached out to graze his fingertips across her shoulder companionably. Akana's eyes trailed back up to his, and he tilted his head a touch to the side, offering her an olive-branch smile. "Of course you wouldn't," he said quietly, and she exhaled a tiny huff of a laugh. But she didn't disagree.

They arrived just outside of the door to Akana's room, and stopped. It was always this way. They had their moments, but there were thresholds that were not crossed. At camp it had been the fire; they walked and talked on the outskirts, but never in the center. There on the razorsharp edge of night and dawn, where time slowed until a thousand things could be said between the space of two heartbeats, that was where he had her.

But it always came back to this. She passed out of his world, and into the world of another. It had never bothered him before, but now, it did.

Zevran recalled looking into the mirror, letting the water run over his face. Yes, this was what had changed. He no longer wished to settle for pieces of her nights. He did not wish to live as some nocturnal scavenger, forever half-starved and feeding only on scraps, even if they were fed by the hand of a goddess.

Stilling those thoughts, he murmured, "Oh. I have something for you. You left it, and it would have been a shame to lose." Pulling the parcel from the back of his waistband, Zevran offered it to her. Akana took it with a look of surprise, and unwrapped the canvas that covered it.

Even in the dim light, the mask gleamed uncannily, each small metallic plate catching the moon's glow. He was rewarded with a rushed intake of breath, and then a soft, disbelieving laugh.

Another scrap. He swallowed it down whole, a wolf with a flank of raw meat. Never enough though.

_Have this, Zevran. Have her smile, her laugh, even her understanding, but not her heart. _

The things he'd done to that boy in the cell...

_Just enough to get by. Just enough to keep you trapped here. Just enough rope to hang yourself._

"Thank you," Akana said, as sincere as she always was. "I- I mean, it's silly, but I really like the mask. The dress I could have done without, but, really, thank you. Did you clean the blood off of it? I'm sure there had to be blood."

"Yes," he replied, though what he meant was: _Yes, I wiped it for what seemed like hours, polishing, hating to see the stain on something that should have brought you simple joy._ "I am pleased that it's found its way back into your possession."

"People couldn't figure out if it looked more like a dragon or a demon," Akana snickered to herself, fingertips tracing the outline of the eye socket. There was blood caked under her fingernails, but her hands moved tenderly.

"What was it meant to be?"

"Both, I guess. Both and neither. It was supposed to be good, too. Armored like a Knight. A protector, not only a destroyer." For that was what she struggled to be: for all the darkness bound up inside of her, Akana wanted so badly just to keep them all safe and happy. After a lifetime in the Alienage, where both safety and happiness could be crushed in a moment, this was her most salient desire. To protect her friends and loved ones. It just so happened that the Maker gave her a warrior's disposition, rather than that of a healer, or a politician, or even a rogue.

Zevran didn't stop himself: he reached out, and carefully removed the few remaining pins in her hair. He took extra precaution not to snag, pull, or pinch, until he held a handful of glittering, gemmed hairpieces in his palm. Akana's hair was terribly mussed, only moreso now that certain locks tried to hold the shape of the pins, but that suited her fine. She narrowed her eyes, not maliciously so much as cynically, trying to sense if there was a game in this, or an incoming taunt.

"Because you would have ripped half your hair out rather than bothering to take the time, no?" He gave her the pins, and she took them.

"Probably," she assented with a smirk. Then, for a long moment, she looked down at the little ornaments in one hand, and the mask in the other. "Did I mess up tonight?"

"No," Zevran answered definitively. And because that seemed like all he could say without his mouth running off with him, he repeated it. "No."

Akana nodded, accepting his answer. Then her voice took on that wistful, freezing-air-through-a-wind-chime quality that it had in the courtyard, like she wasn't quite talking to anyone at all: "Kill all my demons..."

"-and you shall kill off my angels too," Zevran finished. It was a phrase well-known in Antiva, though overuse meant that it lost much of its meaning. Hearing the words from Akana's mouth, however, brought back nostalgia and deja vu so strong that he might as well have been back in his room above the leather shop.

She looked up sharply, brow knitted in confusion. Her eyes jumped back and forth between his, and there, _there-_

Akana saw him, perhaps for the first time. Not just as a promiscuous Crow, or a skilled ally, or even a sounding board for the insecurities she shared with no one else. She saw him and knew him, and Zevran had never ever felt so naked in his entire life. Something flitted across her gaze: the birth of a possibility.

Zevran leaned forward, and the only sign that he hadn't lost all sense was the fact that his kiss alight upon her forehead, not her lips. It was gentle and sweet, sure, but more than those it was _true,_ and that was far more important, and far more rare. And even though he pressed his lips between her eyes, not to her mouth, it was infinitely more daring here in the dark stretch of the hall than the public, full-mouthed kiss he'd won as his boon.

She didn't react, which was bad and good; she might not have melted into his arms, but she didn't break his jaw, either. When Zevran pulled away, Akana stared at him, speechless, for several seconds.

Then, as if time had finally caught up, the woman said, so quietly that he had to strain to hear it: "Don't do that again."

And with that, she was gone, on the other side of the door, back into the realm of the daylight soul. Zevran Arainai was left standing there, from beast to man and back again, before he'd even had time to draw breath.


	27. Now Comes the Night

**A/N: **Another "hi haven't been updating very frequently, may be a while before the next chapter, here's a longish post!" deal here. A little more spiritual than the usual fare, but hopefully not too jarring!

Non-account reviews:

_skybound2:_ Thank you! I can't take credit for the character depth, though -- BioWare folks get the honors there. I'm mostly just doing my best to carry through the stories and personalities that they did such a great job at establishing. Still, greatly appreciated!

_Witchy Bee:_ Haha, I don't mean to torture! (Okay, I do. A little.) Favorite chapter, though? Oi, I guess the pressure's on now!

_Shadowlore:_ =) Agreed, Zevran was pretty great in the game. I wished there was as much attention paid to him as with Alistair, but I suppose there are pretty compelling reasons (like being an option for becoming King) that swing more in Alistair's favor. Game developers can only put so much time and money into a project before it needs to be on the floor; but hey, that's what fanfics are for. ;)

**PS.** I made a community a while back for Dragon Age called "Nothing Gold Can Stay." You can read the description or whatever there, but I was wondering if anyone wanted to help be a mod? This is my first experience with the Community system, so I'm not positive how it works -- all I know is that I can give people the power to add stories. If you're interested, let me know. The Dragon Age boards are growing exponentially and I feel like there's good stuff I'm missing!

* * *

**Akana**

_"Now comes the night,  
Feel it fading away.  
And the soul underneath  
Is it all that remains?"  
- Now Comes the Night; Rob Thomas _

* * *

_Akana shrugged off her dress, and undergarments, then unlaced her boots. Even naked, there were still great swatches of dried blood clinging to her. That didn't happen so much when you wore armor: the blood usually had the decency to stay on the _outside._ But she was too tired to care, and she could still feel the white-hot burn of Zevran's kiss. What had he been thinking?_

_But she knew what he'd been thinking, and that was what made it so unbearable. She couldn't deal with that. Everything else happening, she couldn't deal with the possibility that Zevran was developing real, romantic feelings for her. And the fact that he'd actually _acted_ on them meant that she was probably too late to stop them. _

Gods damn you, Zev,_ she thought, feeling weak and alone and scared. _Of all the men that might have the poor judgment to fall for me, you were supposed to be the _last_. How can you not know better?

_It was part of the reason they'd ever been close at all. Akana hadn't had to worry about any complications like that. In return, _he'd_ never had to worry about such complications from her._

We had an understanding,_ she moaned internally. Maybe that's where things had gone wrong, anyway. How much understanding could you have with someone before that blossomed into companionship, attraction? Akana walked over to the bed where Alistair was lying on his stomach. He was sleeping lightly, and woke when she crawled onto her side of the bed. _

_Before she could even recline back, he pushed himself up, pulled the heavy blankets around her. He tucked her into an envelope of warmth, drew her body to him. "You're cold," he murmured, nuzzling her neck. Her skin still carried the chill of the nighttime air. Akana turned into him, ducking her head under his chin. Too much to think about. So tired. So easy _not_ to think, much better just to lie here, where things were what they should be, and sleep._

Akana dreamed the way she had before the Blight: loosely, more in feelings than anything relating to cause and effect. Tonight the emotions that bubbled up were fear, despair, anxiety. Despite her hardened exterior, they weren't unusual characteristics of her sleeping mind. When you pushed all of those types of emotions down in the waking world, they had to manifest somewhere, didn't they?

Slowly though, Akana felt something else enter the scene. Gently it sought her out, extended the equivalent of an open palm, inviting her to join it. Radiating comfort and peace, the choice between following it or staying in her nightmare of Wynne walking out was hardly difficult decision. She accepted, and the presence, whatever it was, pulled her up and out.

They drifted in darkness for a while, and Akana found that her mind was almost conscious again, her thoughts returning to a mostly logical order. Her emotions were still freer than they ever were when she was awake, though, but she felt calm. Almost like someone watching the dream from a removed perspective, rather than being in it herself. The Being, Spirit, whichever, furnished a place in her mind, and she watched it work.

Fuzzy shapes became trees, while tents popped out of the ground. A big bonfire shot up, and suddenly there was the illusion of light. It could have been the campsite from any number of their nights travelling.

"Why here?"Akana spoke, or thought: the words didn't really have a sound, they were an idea of a sound. The Spirit didn't think back in words, at least at first. Instead, it filled her with positive, happy emotions that she'd associated with camp. Rest, a full belly, momentary respite. The calm within the eye of the storm. Camaraderie. "Okay," Akana answered. "Why though? And what are you?"

It paused, considering. _**Don't be angry?**_ it asked, and the not-words flooded around her. Akana was so surprised that she didn't even laugh. If this thing had the power to shape the Fade like an painter with a full palette of colors, why would it care if she were angry?

"I won't," she answered.

It thanked her with another swell of gratitude, and then showed her.

Legions of Darkspawn marching through the Deep Roads as Akana peered over the cliff. Nightmare black upon nightmare black. _"Bad dream?"_ Alistair asked, the first time she'd had one. Ogres, Emissaries, Hurlocks. Riordan's crumpled body, neck twisted, lying broken at the foot of the stairs of Fort Drakon. The smell of burning-freezing-bleeding scales. A shriek of ancient rage so terrifying that it didn't just make your ears ring, but deafened your _soul_ as well.

The final moment when she drove her sword into the creature's skull, becoming one with steel and godhood and death.

"The Archdemon?"

_**Yes,**_ it answered.

_**No,**_it answered.

Akana looked around; there were certainly no Archdemons lingering in the make-believe camp. For that matter, there was no one at all. But the world shimmered and breathed, alive. "Why are you here?" If she'd been awake, she probably would have fought tooth and nail against accepting the idea that the _Archdemon_ was speaking to her. She would have sneered and joked and when that failed, outright refused.

_**We're part of you,**_ it answered. _We?_ Akana thought, and then figured that it meant the Archdemon and the Old God that it had been before that. That level of corruption probably made for some pretty awful personality-split issues. Hell, she had trouble with that at _her_ level of corruption.

"...bloody great," Akana muttered. She rubbed her forehead, and the contact was only barely physical, like she might have been able to push her fingers through the barrier of her skin without much trouble at all. "So what, are you planning on being here forever?"

It thought for a moment. _**No, not forever. Are We bothering you?**_

"Surprisingly? No. Not right now, at least. But what do you want?" _Because it's not like I can take back killing you,_ Akana thought, and then realized that the Spirit probably heard that just as clearly as if she spoke it.

_**We know,**_it replied neutrally. _**We just want to understand you.**_

Akana snorted. "Me? Should be easy enough. I'm not complicated."

The world buzzed, confused. The sky lit up, no longer night: she watched scenes play there, the most vivid shadow-puppets she'd ever seen. Everything was interlaced, mixing, rage and blood, soft kisses, laughter, the heft of a sword, silence, loss and hope, hope, hope.

"I get it," Akana replied: the images should have been undecipherable, overlapping and layered as they were, but she saw and felt them all. And the truth was, they _were_ complicated. She sighed. "What do you want to know?"

_**We are curious about many things. Come with Us?**_

"I should probably be sleeping. I need the rest."

The Spirit withdrew, and apologetic agreement washed over Akana. _**Yes, if that is your wish. We did not-**_

"Eh, screw it. I'll sleep when I'm dead. How could I pass this up? Sure."

The world went still, the objects in the camp losing their life-like dimensions. _**You have changed your mind?**_

"Yeah. It happens. Where to?"

The Archdemon -- though it was hard for her to think of it as such -- began to tear down the camp. Everything faded, deteriorating like fancy parchment in hot water. Then a great feeling of being _lifted_ overcame her. Before she had time to wonder where she was going, Akana was standing in her room in the Arl's estate at Denerim.

Only she wasn't standing but kind of floating too, and the colors were muted; not just dark from the lack of light, but with a grey haze over everything. And when she stared down at the bed she saw her own body lying there, still wrapped in Alistair's arms. She should have been alarmed, but she found that it was hard to feel strong emotion: she could _recognize_ her own surprise, but it was not of her, somehow removed.

"Am I dead?" Akana asked, and felt the space next to her _bend, _until a wisp materialized. It hovered at her shoulder height, amorphous, made of mirror-light and shadow-smoke.

_**No. If you are uncomfortable, We will return you at once.**_

"Uncomfortable? Maybe. But more curious than that. I'm guessing you brought me here for a reason?"

_**Your companions -- they are very important to you. They have helped make you.**__**Thoughts of them consume you.**_

"Yes," Akana agreed, though she knew that she'd never have said so aloud while awake. There was no burden in admitting what was true, in this state. It wasn't even a calculated decision that it didn't matter if she said it or not -- the truth just bubbled up and out of her like the frothy top on a stein of ale.

She watched her own sleeping body, tucked into the shape of Alistair's form. Their chests rose and fell in unity, together even in breath. There seemed to be a strange glow about the man, too, that she hadn't noticed until she looked closer. Golden, almost pinkish, it lay close to his skin.

"Do they all look like that here?" Akana didn't ask what the glow was, because she already knew. Love. As simple and un-simple as that.

_**We view them through you. This is how your spirit recognizes them, sees them. Yes, they all have the same warmth, in one way or another.**_

"Do they see me that way? I mean, not with their eyes, but with their hearts?" A complete lack of self-consciousness was the only thing that made a question as silly as that possible.

_**We do not know. We think so. **_There was a pause, and then the Old God drew them both closer to Alistair. _**You love him very dearly?**_

"Yes."

_**Why?**_ It wasn't a petulant question, but true curiosity.

The words sprung from her as she thought them, without any barrier between what she felt and what she should or shouldn't say. "He makes me laugh. He loves me, too. He protects me. He is _good_. And there is Fate."

_**Yes, Fate. Would you love him still, if not for Fate? If the rest of the Grey Wardens had not perished at Ostagar? **_Again, the Spirit was not being malicious or pointed in its questioning, only wanted to understand. It didn't seem aware that this was a question that Akana would never imagine she had a proper reponse to -- as if every thought and feeling were so clearly laid out that questions like this had useful answers.

But the answer came to her, and Akana wondered if the God didn't have some sort of power over her. What magic was this, that its questions unlocked secret doors in her soul, ones she hadn't even known were there? "No, I don't think so." The words at least had the decency to sound a bit sad at the prospect.

_**We do not think so, either.**_

"Why?"

The Spirit hummed, thinking. _**You both learned to love each other. If not for Fate, you would never have bothered. Your taste for Goodness only developed after you witnessed the pain of his great loss. He was drawn to your strength, and you softened to accept him. We have seen your memories. This is what We believe.**_

Akana nodded.

_**Does this bother you?**_

"No. What happened, happened. I don't know that it was all for a reason. I don't comfort myself with faith -- in the Maker or in destiny. But what is done is done, and I love him, and he loves me."

_**Uncomplicated, indeed.**_ But there was a twinge of something in the Voice, and Akana ghost-smiled.

"Was that humor?"

_**We have other places to visit.**_ The world spun, though _she_ never felt like she was moving.

- - - - -

Another bedroom, another motionless figure lying under a small mountain of blankets. It took her longer to recognize who it was, but eventually it came to her.

"Sten?"

_**Yes. You are least fond of him, of all your companions. **_It wasn't a question, and she did not disagree. Which wasn't to say she wasn't _un-_fond of the Beresaad. She liked him, but liking him could be a trial in itself.

"Sten was the hardest to get close to -- I still don't think I ever did. Everyone else was easy in comparison, even Morrigan."

Akana thought that the wisp constricted a little when she mentioned the mage's name.

_**Yet he stayed, and you allowed it. Why?**_

"He could have left if he wanted to. He felt he had something to atone for, though, and who am I to keep someone from trying to make up for their mistakes?"

_**Do you think he ever did?**_

"Did what?"

_**Make up for his mistake? Killing innocents? Does one right, or many, ever redeem one of the wrongs they've committed?**_

"Is this about Sten, or me?"

The Spirit did not hesitate, did not pretend otherwise. _**You.**_

"All right. I don't know that any action can cancel some other action out, ever. I think you just do what what you think is right, and if you can do that most of the time, that's the best you can expect."

_**Practical. But the man Loghain did what he thought was right, did he not?**_

Akana half-smiled, softly. Anywhere else but here, it would have been a vicious smirk. "Well, that doesn't mean you always get away with it. If you're prepared to play at stakes that high -- toss away your own mens' lives -- you better have the strength of arms to defend your choice. Loghain didn't."

_**Then might is right?**_ There was no judgement in the question.

"No, not right. But sometimes it's all that matters."

_**That is... troubling.**_

"You tried to eat the world, or whatever it is Darkspawn are so intent on. _This_ troubles you?"

_**The taint held us. We obeyed. Choices are what interest Us, now.**_

"Okay. Well I guess we all make our own choices, but we've got to pay for them, too. Some of us just pay sooner rather than later."

- - - - -

This time the Spirit didn't say anything. Everything moved again, and when it stopped they weren't in a bedroom. They were at a bar, one of the dingier ones in Denerim. Which was really clue enough, but Oghren's wild sprout of bright red hair eliminated any doubt. He was half-lying on a table, and she thought he was sleeping or passed out there, until she realized that he was writing something.

She'd never seen him write anything, and really, she hadn't been sure that he could. He would scribble a few lines, experimentally, then ball up the parchment he was using, and start all over again. Moving over to him (which was as simple as thinking about it), Akana peered down at the words. It was addressed to Felsi each time. After seeing the dwarf woman's name at the top, Akana pulled away, as if to give him privacy.

"Heh. Everyone's so uncomplicated," Akana muttered to herself, laughing a little.

_**Oghren taught you to become a Berserker.**_

"He said it wasn't really about teaching. That if you knew how to be a Berserker, you knew, you just might not _know_ you know. It's more about unlearning to hold back, than learning to do something new." Though she didn't feel any fatigue associated with a real body, Akana sat on the table next to Oghren. It was bizarre to be so near to him, but without him realizing. She picked a spot between some empty tankards; she wasn't too keen on finding out if she'd go right through them, which she figured she probably would.

_**And are you better or worse**__**for it?**_

"I'm a better fighter, if that's what you mean."

_**No.**_

"Didn't think so." Akana looked down at the scruffy, beer-soaked dwarf again. The pink-gold glow was all over him, and she smiled to think about explaining that to him. Alistair had never understood her affection for Oghren: the dwarf drank like a fish, spat and swore, tricked her when he could, and insulted elves when he was good and sloshed. Oghren had even called her ugly on more than a few occasions, which made Alistair sputter and scowl. The others, like Leliana or Zevran, just seemed to assume that there was something there that they didn't understand (or didn't want to). Which was probably accurate enough.

"I think I'm better. I found that after I became a Berserker, it was like a weight was taken off my shoulders. When I learned the skills behind being a Reaver..." Akana winced, briefly. "Fighting like that is satisfying in its own way, but it leaves you feeling sick and twisted up inside. Berserking is different. You're not responsible. You fight until all your foes are down, or you collapse. That's all there is."

_**It brought you peace?**_

Akana tilted her head. "Yes. In a way. Not worrying about controlling myself in battle made it easier to identify the things I _could_ control outside of it. More than I did before, at least."

_**Interesting.**_

The Warden smiled slightly, letting herself look down at Oghren again. The urge to reach out and tussle his hair -- he pretended he _hated_ it but she knew better -- was very strong. "If you say so." And a moment of silence, Akana looked back up to the wisp. "Time to go?"

The Spirit shimmered, and she took that as a yes. Before everything went swirly again, Akana reached out and put her hand on Oghren's shoulder. The dwarf stilled his writing, and looked up, over his shoulder. Her hand didn't exactly go _through_ him, but it was like there was some paper-thin boundary between them, and his movement pushed her away. He frowned as he looked about, and then things shifted all over.

- - - - -

No bedroom this time either: but rather the cushioned interior of a slow-moving caravan. A candle flickered with each bump or hitch in the road, and Wynne sat against one of the walls, a book opened in her lap. Akana, as distant as she felt from her emotions, still noted the pang of sadness that weaved through her.

"Do we have to do this?" Akana asked, voice quiet.

_**No.**_ It responded, evenly. _**Would you like to go back?**_

She sighed, and then shook her head. "Let's just get it over with."

Rather than saying anything immediately, the Spirit came closer to her. It emanated comfort, warmth, tranquility, loaning her these things to rest against. She gratefully accepted.

_**You begged her to stay, and she would not. Do you still love her?**_

"Yeah," Akana answered. "But all the rose-glow on her probably told you that."

_**We suspected, though We do not understand. Your love for her extends beyond any sense of principle, beyond right and wrong. Yet her priorities are not the same, and she left you. Why would she do this? **_

"You'd have to ask her. I imagine because she thought she knew me, and it hurt her to see that I've done... unsavory things." Akana looked at the floor of the caravan, trying not to recognize the strained scowl on Wynne's face. The healer's eyes were on her book, but she clearly wasn't reading anything, but rather using it as a guise for a wandering mind. "You're wrong though. I've got principles too, even if someone like Wynne might not call them that."

_**But you often consider yourself unprincipled. You believe you lack the Goodness that some of your companions share: this is why you were particularly drawn to Alistair, Wynne, Leliana.**_

"It's easier to tell myself that I'm just a bad person. Then I don't expect anything more from myself." It might have been humorous, if it weren't so blatantly true. "But principles? I have to have them, somewhere, whatever they are. I let them get in the way of my love for Wynne, after all. I could have taken back recruiting Syl. I certainly could have avoided saying that I'd go after the Circle next. I didn't."

_**Perhaps that would have changed her mind, yes. But would you change those things, if you had the chance? Knowing that they drove her away? **_

"I don't know. You're asking me about the nature of love and the nature of duty, and I'm not a scholar or a philosopher. I wasn't even a good student for the bit of schooling I managed to get through."

_**Please,**_ it asked, and the sensation of encouragement and solace washed over her again, stronger this time. _**Please try.**_

"I... no, I wouldn't take them back. I've done awful things in the name of love, but those were different situations. Making the pact with Morrigan, if I didn't do it, either Alistair or I would be dead right now. Well, _I_ would be dead. And there's no making things better after that. With this... with this maybe I can show Wynne that I can help things. There's a chance here, now."

_**There is hope, then. **_

"Yes. I've just got to figure out how I'm going to do this without bringing a civil war down on my head. I'm not too optimistic there. Diplomacy is not my strong suit; unless intimidation counts. That I can usually do."

_**We believe that you understand diplomacy.**_

"Oh?" Akana arched an eyebrow, even though she couldn't really feel the tug of it in her weightless body.

_**Yes. If you did not understand diplomacy, you would not sidestep it so effectively.**_

"Gee, thanks."

_**You reject it, consider it a tangled mess. **_

"Well, it usually is. I haven't got the ability to talk out of both sides of my mouth like all the nobles seem to do. Or if I could do it, I wouldn't want to."

_**Even if it meant you could keep your loved ones? Like Wynne?**_

Akana smiled wryly. "Even then, so it seems." There was a long moment of silence, and she knew that she hadn't provided satisfactory answers. The Old God was confused, but then again, so was she. Akana wasn't convinced there _was_ anything she could say that would make it all make sense, line up neatly in coherent order.

_**Would you like to stay for a while longer? We know that you were very close to her, and this may be the last time you see her without hostility between you.**_

It was a strangely thoughtful offer, and Akana considered it. After a moment, she shook her head, giving Wynne's familiar form one last, long glance. "No, I shouldn't. Who's next?" The options were quickly dwindling.

_**Leliana.**_

"Let's go, before I decide to stay."

_**As you wish.**_

**_- - - - -_**

They were back in another bedroom. Leliana wasn't sleeping, as Akana had suspected she would be. Instead, the Bard was kneeling in the block of moonlight that shone onto the floor from her open window. Her hands were pressed together, head bowed, with her thumbs held to her forehead. Praying.

Akana listened for a moment. Leliana was quiet, whispering fervently, and her words were slurred. Drunken? Perhaps. She wasn't a stranger to liquor. However, while Akana could see fairly well through the muted fog of the Fade -- if that's where this was, just overlaying reality -- it was impossible to make out what Leliana was saying. She was speaking too quickly, and the sound warbled, as if hearing it from underwater.

_**She is praying to the Maker that you find peace, even with Wynne gone. And asking that the Maker give you guidance on your path.**_

"Well, I hope it works."

_**You do not believe in the Maker, though.**_

"Not really."

_**Why?**_

"I'm just not religious. It's not so much that I don't believe, it's that I don't care. Believing in the Maker helps people like Leliana. I don't really find any comfort in the idea that some omnipresent being is watching my every move."

The Spirit considered this, and tried another question: _**When you first met Leliana, you were not eager to let her travel with you. Why? Did you not think she would be useful?**_

"I thought she'd be a liability. She was unarmed, and let me tell you, she isn't really all that great in close-quarters combat, which was my first experience of her fighting. That, and I thought she would drive me crazy with her babbling about the Maker. But I let her come along because it seemed like it would be a shame to turn away people who wanted to help. Somewhere along the way I started to like her."

_**Is it difficult to enjoy people so thoroughly?**_

"How do you mean?"

Two images welled up in her mind, both of herself. In the first one, she was amongst her troops on the march to Denerim, talking with them, trying to bolster their spirits. She was caught mid-laugh, and she'd even managed to get a smile out of a terrified young soldier. In the second, Akana barely even recognized herself. She was covered head to toe in blood, her hair filthy with it, chunks of gore caught in her fists as she gripped the hilts of her swords. Her teeth shone brightly through the mess: stark white and eerily clean as her lips pulled back in a glorious, triumphant smile.

_**You love people, love warriors. And yet you also love the war. We wonder if it is hard for you: that you become so easily fond of those you meet, when you also take great pleasure in the act of killing.**_

"I don't usually try to reconcile those halves. It would be too painful."

_**Did not Leliana have the same fear? That she would fall unto a path of vice, because she did find some enjoyment in it? You assured her that she did not have to worry. That "evil doesn't worry about being good."**_

"Yeah, yeah." Akana looked down, looking neither at the Bard nor the wisp. "I'm a hypocrite. But it made her feel better." Leliana stood from her prayer, and began to undress. Akana turned away. "Next," she murmured, and the Spirit obliged.

- - - - -

The next bedroom was so dark that even though she wasn't in the physical realm, Akana still had a bit of trouble seeing at first. At last she spotted Syl: she'd changed into fresh clothes, but she was still awake, perched at the edge of her bed, back ramrod straight. Yorick was lying on the bed with her, his great head on her lap while she patted him absently. Almost as soon as Akana spotted the Mabari, he looked up, directly towards her. His tail wagged.

"Can he see us?"

_**No. But he is a Mabari and you are his master. He can tell when you're near.**_

"Are we here to talk about Yorick?"

_**Sylvia. **_

"I just met her. Well, I met her before, but I didn't even know her name until tonight."

_**And yet you traded her for one of your dearest companions.**_

"What is it you want to ask?"

_**Why did you really recruit her?**_

Akana gazed at the Blood Mage, who finally laid back, pushing herself under the covers. Yorick moved out of her way, and then once she was settled, laid back down next to her, protectively. Akana had spent a few nights like that with Yorick, and knew there were few substitutes that could match a warm, happy Mabari. Of course she'd eventually switched Yorick out for Alistair, and there was only slightly less _drool._

"Because I couldn't let them take her back to a prison she'd given everything up to escape. She'd sacrificed so much just to leave. That, and I believe in her cause. And being a Grey Warden will let her get more done for the mages than being an Apostate."

_**So it has nothing to do with battling Darkspawn, the sacred call of the Grey Wardens?**_

"Oh, I'm sure Syl could destroy quite a few hordes of them, especially now that they haven't got an Archdemon -- you or not you, whatever -- to lead them. And trust me, I'm not gonna let any Grey Wardens get away without smashing a few Darkspawn skulls in. But it's not my most pressing concern at the moment."

_**What is, then?**_

"Making the world I saved worth the trouble."

_**Do you think that such is your place?**_

Akana shrugged. "Not really, no. But I never would have said that killing an Archdemon and stopping a Blight was my place, either. When Ferelden needed me though, I came through for them. And now they've got me, whether or not they still want me."

_**You are not worried that your power will consume you?**_

"I've always been worried about that. But I know for sure that I couldn't live with myself if I didn't _try_ to make things better. My duty as a Grey Warden was to stop the Blight. My duty as a person is to help those that need it."

_**We… think We understand. We have one more companion to ask you about.**_

"All right. I'm ready."

- - - - -

Everything came together again and it should have been unsettling, or at least nauseating. Instead, it was as gentle as a cool breeze on a hot day. They were still in a bedroom, but it was nothing like the grand ones in Arl Eamon's Denerim estate. It was smaller, with a lot more clutter, though everything seemed to be draped in red silks. Several oil lamps on the walls lit the room in flickering, yellow light.

On the bed, the drapery had been pulled back. Lush pillows were strewn on the floor, and Akana looked across the overstuffed cushions up to the bed itself: two forms lay on it. One she recognized, the other she didn't.

It certainly wasn't strange that Zevran wasn't sleeping alone. What did give her pause, however, was the symbol that'd been carved into the bedframe and headboard. It was the mark of the Pearl, which also explained the lavish – and single-purposed – furnishings. What possible reason did Zevran have in buying time with a prostitute? It wasn't like he had trouble winning over hearts and bodies without coin to help. Akana looked over the woman lying next to him, half curled on his chest. She was human, rather unremarkable, except for her incredibly bright-blonde hair. Not so light as to be silvery, like Akana's, but surprisingly close.

Actually, _uncomfortably_ close. Akana turned her eyes away, looking instead at the wisp.

"What fresh interrogation awaits?" She asked, not malevolently, though perhaps a touch nervously.

_**Why did you let Zevran live, after he'd attacked you?**_

Akana had had to answer this question several times: for herself, for other companions, for Soris and Shianni. None of her answers had ever felt complete before, but it was so easy to admit things here. So she closed her eyes momentarily (finding that her eyelids were translucent enough that she could still see everything, though more dimly), and did her best to explain.

"I was the victor, and that tends to make me more magnanimous. He also spilled all his information without needing that much prompting. His cooperation made it easier to let him live than to work up the proper hatred it takes to slay a beaten man asking for mercy."

_**Others have appealed for your mercy and been unsuccessful – others who are perhaps more deserving of it.**_

"He was an elf," Akana said, smiling as she remembered the scene. "I was so glad to see an elf who was actually _living,_ not serving, even though now I know better. He was charming, too. Brash. I have a taste for bravery, boldness, and he'd accepted his defeat like it'd been nothing but a big game. Sometimes you crave a break from the _seriousness_ of it all."

She paused, reopened her eyes. Zevran wasn't asleep, though the woman was dozing, temple to his chest. He had both hands linked behind his head, and he stared upwards. His face was expressionless, but the depth in that gaze said more than any smile or frown could have.

_**You have more to say,**_ the Spirit stated quietly. It was true, of course.

"He was hurting. Not from the battle, I mean, I could see this _pain_ coiled up within him. I know what caused it, now. Rinna. He'd been looking for a good death, and he thought he'd find it in me, or the Warden he thought I was. He asked for mercy without really expecting it, and even that was more out of the habit than really _wanting_ it. So I guess I… I wanted to give him something better than death. I wanted to give him another chance. Pretty foolish."

The Spirit didn't comment right away, and she could tell that it was thinking this over. After a long while, it spoke again: _**We underestimated your sensitivity, even though We have witnessed it in other places. We apologize.**_

"Don't worry about it," Akana laughed under her breath. "So do I. In fact, I make a _point_ of underestimating it. It'd be too much to deal with, otherwise."

_**He loves you.**_

Even now she felt the distant instinct to deny the statement, or turn it aside. Instead she said: "I know."

_**Do you love him?**_

She could have said _I love them all_ and that would have been the truth, but what came out was: "Probably. I could love him, if I tried. If I let myself. I have no intention of doing that, though."

_**Why not?**_

"All that lies down that road is sadness and sorrow."

_**We think we understand.**_

"That makes one of us."

The room faded away until they were nowhere at all, floating in empty blackness. It wasn't a frightening place, but familiar, like the last blip of consciousness before sleep.

_**We would like to thank you for answering our questions. To express Our gratitude, may We show you something? It will not take very much longer.**_

"All right."

- - - - -

The darkness faded, revealing a campsite not entirely unlike the ones that Akana had grown used to over the past few weeks. There were some notable differences, however: the tents were made of better material, and each bore a familiar-unfamiliar crest. Keeping watch near the central bonfire, a man sat with his back propped against a log. He was shining his armor.

_**The Orlaisian Grey Wardens travel to meet you. This is Ser Nicholas Deschain, their Commander.**_

"The Orlaisian Wardens?" Akana moved closer to the man, skirting around the fire, so that she could get a better look at him. His dark hair fell in his face as he polished his armor, a few tufts of gray springing at the temples. He was actually rather handsome, aged in a rugged way, and he- "Looks like Duncan," Akana said aloud.

_**He is not Duncan. **_It responded quickly, the wisp pulsing strongly for a second. Was that anger? Indignation?

"You knew Duncan?" Akana asked, glancing at it from the corner of her eyes.

_**Yes. If Loghain had stood his ground at Ostagar, it is Duncan who would have slain Us, or failed to slay Us. He was the only other Grey Warden who was a true threat.**_

"Were you glad he died, then?"

_**Triumphant, yes. Glad? It is hard to say. When you have lived with the pain of corruption as long as We had, you come to love your killer as much as hate them. We roared the victory of Duncan's death, and in doing so We mourned his passing, too.**_

Akana wasn't sure what to say to that, so she turned back to the Grey Warden before her. When she moved closer still, though, she saw something that actually made fear lance through her being: corporeal or not. Unlike her companions, who had been covered in that silly pink-gold glow, there seemed to be something mottled and horrible wriggling underneath his skin. Like devouring worms and scarabs, it was like he was being _eaten_, without even being aware of it. The worst of it was in the center of his chest, which was crawling with things that Akana could sense but not really see, not if she were looking directly at him.

"Gods-damn! What is that?!" She snapped, drawing away. The man continued working on his armor, as if there weren't other-worldly creatures feasting on him.

_**The taint.**_

Akana stopped, forced herself to watch now. The taint? Was this what it looked like, what really happened when your time was up? When your body and soul began to slowly give way to the evil sliding through your veins?

"He doesn't even seem to notice..."

_**He knows. In his heart, he knows. It frightens him.**_

"It frightens _me_ and I've still got a couple decades before I've even got to start worrying about that."

The Spirit did not seem to know how best to respond to this, though it did approach her, and lent her some warmth.

"Why have you shown me this?" She asked, hoping that there was some reason that could make seeing _worth_ it. The Abominations of the Tower weren't so grotesque and horrifying as this.

_**He comes for you, to greet you, congratulate you. But he will want to know how it is you yet live. His pain makes him desperate. Be wary.**_

"Just what I needed. Another complication."

_**Should We have refrained? We did not wish to trouble you further, but-**_

"No. Probably better to know its coming. Not that I have any idea what I'm supposed to do about this. Even if I told him the truth -- which I won't -- it's not like it'd do him much good."

_**No,**_ the Spirit agreed. She watched as Ser Deschain finished polishing his breastplate. He let the heavy platemail rest in his lap, and turned his jet-black eyes upwards, gazing at the stars. The look was not one of a crazed man; it was wistful, nostalgic. Akana wanted to offer him some kind of warm word, some company.

_This is how you get yourself into trouble, _she thought to herself.

"I have a question for you, before we leave."

_**Yes?**_

"You said that you loved Duncan, in a way. Does that mean you love me?"

She had the answer even before the Spirit spoke: pride and hope and adoration filled her, made her feel feather-light. _**We love you more than anything We have ever known. You killed Us and delivered Us from corruption. You gave Us new life.**_

"Well, _I_ didn't really do that. Morrigan did." The elf woman halted a moment, before facing the wisp. "You know, we didn't visit her. Why is-"

_Akana woke suddenly, without warning. One of Alistair's hands cupped her face, and she blinked up at him. "Are you all right?" He asked, peppering her forehead with kisses. "You were talking in your sleep. I couldn't understand it, but at the end you said... you said _her_ name, and I thought you might have been having a nightmare."_

_"I guess I kind of was," she replied, trying to adjust to the feeling of her body again, to the press of his weight on her. _

_"What was it about?" Alistair asked, concerned. He pulled her close, tucking the blankets in on her other side, wrapping her up protectively. _

_"There was..." Akana started, but even as she tried to remember, it was all fading away so quickly. It ran together, muddled, and there was nothing solid to hold on to. All she knew was that it felt like she'd been travelling, somehow. "I don't know, now. It's passed. I forget."_

_"Probably just as well," he replied, before planting a soft kiss on her mouth. She returned it. They always woke each other up when they were having nightmares. It was a deal they'd made long ago. Another way to save each other._

_"Alistair?" She asked, voice weak._

_"Yes?"_

_"It's not over, is it?"_

_He didn't answer right away, but held her tighter instead. _

_"We won, Akana. The hard part is over."_

_And even if she didn't quite believe him, she let those words carry her back into a dreamless sleep._


	28. The Enemy of My Enemy

**A/N:** Hey folks -- long time no update, for a variety of reasons. The biggest being that I've just finished setting my laptop back up after a nasty harddrive crash. I have my boot disc, driver disc, and copy of MS Word up at college, so I had to download Open Office to upload this. I didn't want to hold up much longer, and I didn't want anyone to think I'd forgotten about this story!

Non-account reviews:

_Witchy Bee_: I was thinking of _A Christmas Carol_ as I was writing it. Hoping it wasn't _too_ similar. ;) Though I find the idea very cool (as you guys probably noticed, lol).

**PS**. I'm trying my hand at writing a bit of a backstory for my D&D character, which will probably be uploaded to soon too. Again, definitely haven't forgot about this story, but my character there is edging on Level 12 (which for any of you folks who play, particularly 2nd Edition, you'll know is up there) and I figure it's about time she had a story. I've been playing her since early this summer, and that character was inspiration for Akana.

**PPS.** I also want to say that I highly recommend Google Docs as a way of saving your stories. I personally have written all of this fanfiction in Google Docs, and just convert over to MS Word whenever I need to upload single chapters. If this story had been saved to my harddrive and I had lost it, I would have probably lost heart completely and given up. I've experienced a few harddrive failures in the past, and I know I ride my laptop a little too hard, but I still think anyone could benefit from this advice. =)

* * *

**Yorick**

_"A friend is someone who has the same enemies as you."  
- Abraham Lincoln_

_

* * *

  
_

Yorick woke instantly when he knew _she_ was approaching. Akana was still too far away to hear, and he certainly couldn't see her through the walls of the bedroom, but he knew it all the same. The Mabari rose, and carefully jumped off of the bed, doing his best not to wake the sleeping woman there. Her name was Syl, and he'd been told to guard her, so he had. He'd even been told to be nice, and he'd done his best to do that too.

He went to the door, and sat, waiting. On the other side was a human guard. He'd been a soldier on the day of the final battle, and he was young. The guard was sleeping, even though he was still standing. Yorick could tell by the way he breathed, deeply and evenly, but also sort of muffled, like his head had dropped to his chest. Oghren sometimes did this when he was very drunk, and Yorick liked to see how gently he could bump the dwarf before he fell over.

Snorting lightly, Yorick strained his ears for Akana's familiar footsteps. It was bad that the human guard had fallen asleep. Whenever Alistair fell asleep on watch, Yorick would nip his fingers and elbows. But he knew that this was why Akana sent him too: you never sent a human to do a Mabari's job, and it was really _his _job to protect Syl. The boy-guard outside was just for show.

When he heard Akana walking towards them -- he could tell by the soft jangle that she wore some of her armor, but not the heaviest stuff -- Yorick's stumpy tail waggled happily. He'd done a very good job of guarding, and he knew he'd get a good ear scratch for that. There were few better things in the world than Akana's ear scratches... except maybe for bronto-bones with meat still clinging to them. Yorick did his best not to drool.

Akana was very close now, just on the other side of the door, and he could smell her. She was cleaner than last night, no longer had that sharp-copper blood on her. His master smelled as she normally did, then: like leather and steel and elf and Alistair and herself. He heard the guard start on the other side.

"O-oh! Grey Warden Akana! I-I- Maker, I'm sorry, I must have dozed off-"

"It's okay," Akana replied gently, and Yorick's ears pricked at the soft sound of his master putting a hand on the boy's armored shoulder. He heard the man exhale, his ribcage creaking all the way down. "It's been a long night. I won't tell anyone if you won't."

"I- Yes, but, my apologies, I-"

"Go get some sleep," Akana commanded him, but Yorick also heard the jingle of a coin purse. Septims, from the weight of the things clinking together. Five? Six? No, definitely five.

"My Lady, I cannot accept-"

"You did good. Go buy a present for your family or spend a few nights in the Pearl, whatever. Just get some rest, okay?"

"I-"

"Are you arguing with me, soldier?"

"No!"

"I didn't think so. Now scram." Even though the words might not have been very kind, Yorick could hear the affection in Akana's voice. His master always was very fond of soldiers. Especially the male ones, who invariably turned into starry-eyed dolts around her. The young man did hustle off though, gibbering quick thank-yous, the sound of his boots trailing down the hall.

Akana must have had the key to the door, because she unlocked it as quietly as possible, opening it a few inches. Yorick, knowing that she was trying not to wake Syl, did his best not to bellow his joy at seeing her. Instead, he chased his tail for a short moment, panting. Akana smiled at him, and jerked a thumb towards the other end of the room.

_'Is Syl sleeping?'_ She mouthed, miming with her hands pressed together under one side of her face. Yorick, again fighting the instinct to let out a couple booming barks, nodded. It was an ungainly gesture, but humans and elves and dwarves alike all seemed to use it. She very, very quietly whispered: "I'll come back. Wake her up gently for me?" Yorick, whose keen ears picked the words up as if she'd said them normally, nodded again. "Good boy. I'll bring food."

Yorick began to bark at that, but caught himself when she jabbed a finger at him. His clamped his jaws shut around the noise. "Good boy," Akana said again, and then closed the door. He listened to her walk away, towards the kitchens, before returning to Syl.

It wasn't that he didn't like Syl. He just didn't really _trust_ her. It was his job not to trust anyone that Akana trusted, anyway. It'd taken him months to consider Leliana, Wynne, and even Alistair, safe. And that was largely because Akana traveled with them most frequently. Even if he wasn't worried that someone would out-and-out betray her (he'd never thought Alistair would do that, for example), he had to worry that they would not be strong enough companions, and that they would not be able to protect his master.

He would have had to have been very dense, also, not to know that Syl's presence, for whatever reason, was causing everyone a great deal of stress. The woman had spoken to him for hours last night, confiding in him things that even a clever Mabari could not understand. What he surmised, though, was that she was a criminal, but that she had been doing what she believed was right. And that Akana had faith in her, even if other people were not so sympathetic. Yorick did not doubt this. His master did not seem to follow many of the rules that most people they met followed, especially humans.

Yorick walked to the side of the bed where Syl and curled up. Her face was sunken far into the down of the pillow, her dark red hair in messy tangles. This woman still smelled like blood; and it wasn't just from whatever had happened yesterday. This blood was different, older, charged with something that made Yorick's nose tickle. He'd smelled Blood Mages before, and he did not like it. But if Akana said to be nice, and gentle, he would. Besides, Syl had pet him for many long hours, and he could tell that she did not want to hurt anyone right now.

Because he knew that not many humans appreciated being woken by warm Mabari licks (though he couldn't fathom where their aversion came from), Yorick deliberately nudged her pillow with his snout. It took a few moments, but then Syl's breathing changed, and he backed away, resting on his haunches. She came awake slowly, blinking blearily until her eyes focused on him. Yorick smiled at her, panting lightly.

The Blood Mage pushed herself up, looking around the room in surprise. Then recognition dawned on her, and she sank back down, shoulders propped against the headboard. Syl let out a groan mixed with a sigh, and pressed her thumb and forefinger so hard into her eyes that Yorick was almost worried she'd hurt herself. The woman cursed, and then let her hand fall away.

"So this means all of that really did happen, doesn't it?"

Yorick let out a soft bark of affirmation. He heard Akana coming back now, her steps slower. She was carrying something, and a moment later he could smell it, and _oh_ she'd brought him a couple of those wonderful meatpies! Shortly afterwards, there was a knock at the door.

"Syl? It's Akana. I've brought you some breakfast."

Syl sighed again, closing her eyes for a moment before answering. "All right. You can come in." The mage pulled back her sheets and climbed out of the bed. She was wearing the spare tunic and pants that Leliana had brought in the night before, wrinkled from being slept in. Akana came in, and Yorick went to her side. She was carrying a tray, which she put down on the small table set up at the other end of the room.

Syl walked over, still a little sluggish from sleep, and seated herself. She let Akana pour her a cup of coffee -- Yorick quite liked the smell of it, but he found the taste very unappealing -- and then sipped at it without a word. Akana handed Syl one of the plates, piled high with food. "I wasn't sure what you liked, so I gathered up a bit of everything. Eggs, cheese, bread, some fruit-"

"Thank you," Syl replied, and began to nibble at a chunk of bread. Yorick thought this was likely more out of politeness than hunger. Akana nodded, and then turned to him. With one hand she scratched him behind the ears, and with the other, she fed him his breakfast: one meatpie after another, until he wolfed three of them down without trouble. He was particularly careful not to bite her fingers, though. When he was done he licked her hand.

"If you need to take a leak, Yorick, go do it. But come back, okay? I'd like your ears for this." Yorick woofed, and then bounded through the open door.

After finishing up his business in his usual spot in the courtyard, the Mabari returned. Akana and Syl weren't speaking very much; his master did not engage in small talk very easily. He came into the room, and then turned around to push the door closed. That accomplished, he trotted halfway between the table and the door, and laid down. Though he rested his head on his paws, his ears still perked and twitched: actively scouting for eavesdroppers. There were none.

"Good. All right, let's just get to the point, because I hate trying to do that thing where you talk about one thing when you're really trying to talk about something else," Akana started, setting down the utensil she'd been using. The clink of metal on ceramic tickled Yorick's ears. "Is that okay with you?"

"Yes, quite." Syl replied, and Yorick heard her take a large gulp of tea.

"I've already spoken with Arl Eamon, and you're welcome to stay here. He's not thrilled at the idea, but one of the perks of saving a man's village, castle, wife, _and_ possessed child is that you can call in favors pretty easy. You don't _have_ to stay here, I'm not forcing you to, but let's be realistic. It's safer. What do you think?"

Yorick watched Syl scowl lightly, looking down into her mug of tea. "There is no place safe for me here, now that people know what I am."

"Yeah, well," Akana replied, sighing. "You're preaching to the choir, aren't you?" Syl's eyes flicked up to the Warden's, and her expression immediately changed to embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think about what I was saying-"

His master waved it off. "I didn't take it personally. What I'm getting at here is that I understand. I didn't say it was safe, I said it was _safer_. Trust me, if there is one thing I've learned in all of this, it's that there is a pretty big distinction between those two words. So will you stay? Again, you don't have to. But I want to know where you'll be."

"I... I suppose I will stay here, for now. But- but I'd like to talk about my... the situation with my conscription." She made the effort to soften her tone. Yorick sat up to scratch his ruff with his hind foot.

"Yeah, that's the next order of business. Speak your piece."

"Right." The Blood Mage inhaled deeply, and pushed herself till her back was upright in the chair. "To be a recruited as a potential Grey Warden is a great honor, Lady Tabris-"

"Akana."

"Akana- but, with all due respect, I never asked to be recruited. I am... unsure of whether I am worthy such an honor, or if I even wish to bear such a great responsibility." Syl spoke very evenly, but Yorick could hear her heart hammering inside of her ribcage. On the other hand, Akana's body seemed very still: her pulse was normal, and she barely moved, limbs slightly tensed. The Mabari felt his own muscles coil in response: not _too_ much, because she hadn't given any order, but enough that he'd be ready to fight, if need be.

"I see," Akana said, voice deadly soft.

"I truly mean no disrespect. I am _eternally_ grateful that you stayed Greagoir's hand, but-" the mage repeated hastily. "It's just that I never _chose_ to join your ranks."

"Yes," Akana said, voice stronger now but still unusually contained. "You did."

"Pardon?"

"You chose." The Warden paused, the words rumbling deep in her chest. "You chose when you told me you'd rather die than go back. You chose when it was clear that you'd fight to the death in a ballroom crowded with innocents. You chose when you decided to champion the cause of your fellow mages, and sought me out a second time. You chose when begged for your life in the Tower, rather than dying amongst your fellows who attacked me and mine."

"I-" Syl's voice faltered, and Akana was quick to overpower her.

"I'm not rescinding your conscription, Sylvia."

"You claim to believe in freedom," Syl sputtered, "But to be a Grey Warden is another form of servitude -- one which I did not decide for myself!" There wasn't true anger in her voice, but bewilderment and a bit of panic instead.

"Yeah, _well._ I've given you your freedom twice now, and we're even as far as saving each other's lives. So that's the thing about debt. Sometimes people actually come to collect." Yorick did not recognize the tone in Akana's voice now. It was unyielding, entirely without empathy, but not malicious: something she had to have learned from someone else. But who? Not Alistair.

Syl slumped in her seat, the fight seeming to have been drained from her. She was more struggling against the idea of being forced into something than the recruitment itself, or so Yorick imagined. Otherwise, she might have protested more.

Akana let out a low breath, and then looked away. She tilted her head to pop a joint, and then looked back. With a gentler tone, she continued. "I was recruited against my will." Syl's eyes flicked up to Yorick's master's face, searching. "If you were at the Feast you heard it. Duncan conscripted me to save me from being drawn and quartered. Partly because it was the only thing he could do that would stop the guards, and partly because he needed me. That's why I conscripted you."

"You need me?" The mage asked quietly, skeptical. "But the Blight is over."

"I need you for more than that. I conscripted you not only because it saved lives, but because you'll get more done for the mages as a Grey Warden than you would as an Apostate. I'm sure you thought as much, or you probably wouldn't still be here."

"...I have considered it."

"Good. I have a plan. But first I want to know if you're going to fight me."

"What?"

"Are you going to fight me? Does being a Grey Warden sound so much like the confines of the Tower that you'll turn on me? I want to know. Don't lie. Even if I don't catch it, Yorick will." Yorick growled -- not too loudly -- to emphasize the point. Yes, he could usually tell when humans were lying. Their hearts sped up, and the acrid smell of their fear and anxiety leaked into the air.

"I... no, La- Akana. No. It does not. I have no illusions that being a Grey Warden will be easy, but the Tower itself is a cage. The weight of duty is not the same thing, and I did not mean to suggest otherwise. It's just... you understand that... it is a rather bitter pill to swallow. To switch from the physical binds of the Tower to the binds of obligation is a great improvement, but there are still... shackles."

"Too heavy? Too tight? Enough to lose what bit of freedom you've gained, enough to throw away all the good you could do for your kind, enough try to kill me?"

"No." Yorick could smell Syl's discomfort, but she was not lying. Akana looked down at Yorick, and he stared evenly back at her. The Warden turned back to the recruit, and nodded.

"All right. Because let me be very clear. If you betray me -- if you do to the Wardens what you did at the Circle -- I will kill you. There will be no more chances. I'm taking a risk with you, and it's not all on my own head. Dishonor the Grey Wardens and I will snuff you out _without hesitation_."

"Yes," Syl responded, nodding. "What happens if I do not attack you, but I refuse to be a Grey Warden? If I say no? Will you simply hand me over to Greagoir and Irving?" Yorick didn't think it sounded like Syl intended to do this, but the woman wanted to get a feel for her options.

Akana snickered darkly. Though he knew it was unsettling for other humans to hear, it made Yorick want to lick Akana's hands and face. There was a note of sadness in it that he doubted Syl could hear. Humans usually missed the most important nuances in a conversation, but who could blame them, with their poor senses? "When I went through my Joining, there were three of us. I was the only one that came out of it."

"Daveth and Ser Jory. I remember." Syl said.

"Yes. Daveth was killed by the Joining itself. Ser Jory, after witnessing that, wouldn't partake in the ritual. He refused to become a Grey Warden. Duncan slew him where he stood." Akana dropped her gaze, looked at her hands on the table rather than over at the Blood Mage. "I was angry and upset when I woke up from the Joining. The image of Duncan driving a sword through Jory's chest was at the top of my mind, even with all the other painful things the Joining dug up. I couldn't believe Duncan would kill a man just for _not_ wanting to be a Grey Warden. I get it now, though."

Akana paused, tracing a bit of spilled tea on the tray with the tip of her finger. "No, I wouldn't turn you over to the Circle. You're my responsibility now. And I'm not about to let the Templars, or anyone else, start cleaning up my messes."

"I... I believe I understand," Syl replied slowly.

"I hope so. I took a big gamble with you. Don't make me regret it."

"I will do my best."

Yorick watched them gauge each other for a few more moments. Then Akana nodded, with finality. "Okay. Now that that's settled, here's what I'm thinking. You're the first one I'm telling, even before Alistair, because I want your opinion before I commit to it. It's going to, uh, rock the boat a bit."

And then Akana told her a plan that sounded crazy even to Yorick. By the end of it the two women were leaning together, close. They plotted and schemed, forging the necessary bonds of camaraderie. Yorick shut his eyes, just listening. He trusted Syl a little more, now.


	29. Off With His Head

**A/N:** I'm sure you've all heard about the Dragon Age Expansion coming out in a few months -- if not, go check it out! I really want to be finished (or damn, damn close) with this fic by the release, because I'm pretty sure that it's going to be waaay disheartening to see just how much that's gonna mess up my timeline. =\

Non Account Reviews:

_Witchy Bee -_ I've had trouble with not updating me before; one time it was REALLY bad, and I went through and sort of '"reset" my email alert notifications (clicked them off and on again). I don't know if that helped, or if the site just had a hiccup and got better on its own.

**PS**. Still looking for mods for my "Nothing Gold Can Stay" community. I don't have the time to update it and cultivate it like it should be, and if anyone is interested, please let me know!

**PPS.** Another new POV person next chapter as well. =)

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**Anora**

_"It is necessary for him who lays out a state and arranges laws for it to presuppose that all men are evil and that they are always going to act according to the wickedness of their spirits whenever they have free scope."  
- Niccolo Machiavelli_

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_

Anora paced about her private sitting room. Strong morning sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. _So we shall have good weather to begin the true mourning,_ she thought to herself, trying to go over the day's schedule once more. The Feast and Ball were finished, now was to start the three days she'd set aside for grieving and mass funerals. They would be quite ornate and very beautiful to make up for the lack of personalization; it was a shame they did not have the means to give every fallen soldier a proper wake and funeral. Even in Denerim, they did not have the facilities for that -- the bodies would be bloated and maggot-eaten by the time they were finished, if they tried. Still, a shame.

She would need to be present at the beginning and end of each funeral, and that would fill much of her day. As it was, she had only an hour before her first appearance. Anora wore a simple white dress: finely tailored and outrageously expensive, of course, but nothing gaudy. Still, she would stand out amidst all the black garb. A Queen had to represent the hope of her people.

While these thoughts did provide a nice distraction, ultimately Anora's mind turned back to the most pressing issue: the young man who had tried to assassinate Akana, the resident Hero of Ferelden. The Queen worried her hands as she moved back and forth across the rug. The pacing was something she'd picked up from her father.

_Who Alistair killed like a dog, in his own cherished city!_

Yes, Loghain had done terrible things towards the end of his life, but so quickly had Fereldans forgotten his heroism! The public was eager to turn to the Grey Wardens now, as if _they_ had never done anything morally suspect. Akana's army had even held a contingent of werewolves, and the people _still_ thought she could do no wrong!

Anora spun her wedding ring on her finger, the woven gold band that Cailan had put there when they were married. It was a nervous gesture that Loghain had hated. She tried not to hear her father's voice telling her to stop playing with her jewelry, and couldn't.

_His funeral will be the last,_ Anora told herself. _It will be the grandest, and they will all remember what he has done for them. The Wardens may have saved Ferelden, but Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir is the only reason there was a country left to save!_

But first...

The assassination attempt was not something that could be taken lightly. Even though she'd been able to quell the nobles' fears and convince them largely that it was an isolated incident, there was no way to silence them. The Ball that'd been meant to mark her grand entrance as a Queen had been transformed into an event that showed her very lack of control, at best.

At worst? It was no secret that the relationship between she and Akana was... strained. Anora knew better than to think that there _weren't_ whispers that _she_ might have been lining the assassin's pockets. The best she could do was to keep them as back-alley conspiracies, the gossip of royalty-hating peasants and overly chatty housewives.

The notion that she had somehow become the Warden's caretaker might have been funny in other circumstances, but in reality it was dismal and she resented it. For a woman so hellbent upon unleashing chaos, Akana's life was perhaps the single greatest element upon which order hinged. If the Hero of Ferelden was slain, by an assassin no less, and at Anora's Ball? There would have been a revolt to put the battle against the Archdemon to shame.

Anora herself would have been beheaded, along with most of the nobility, as that was how things went. Some soldiers might hold fast to their duty and protect the throne, but Anora was not an idiot: they adored Akana. It hurt to admit this as well, but they loved Akana more than they loved Loghain. His betrayal was never forgotten amongst those who had lost comrades at Ostagar. The woman-warrior was the Teyrn Loghain of their time: they worshiped the ground she walked on.

And it was probably even worse, too, that she was a woman. The armies, though they had female soldiers, were largely made up of men. Men who saw Akana not just as a leader, but who would also defend her with all the ferocity that they would their lovers, sisters, daughters -- perhaps even mothers, though she was probably not old enough for that. The women admired her as well, and the Denerim guard and army was already seen an incredible upswing in female enlistees.

All of these were exceptionally good reasons why Akana had to stay alive and healthy, and Anora had no designs on her life. Killing Akana, while she could not say she hadn't considered it (at great length), would be suicide. Anora did have a mind for revenge, but Loghain had not raised a fool. She had to do what was best for Denerim, and Ferelden at large. That, and Akana _had_ stopped the Blight. Anora could not let the pain of the loss of her father cloud that fact. Just as Loghain had done terrible things and wondrous things, so had Akana.

_So have we all,_ Anora thought, somberly, and went to the window. She leaned against the wall, staring down at the streets of the marketplace far in the distance. Shops were closed, black cloth draped on windows and doorways in mourning.

"Maybe if I had not attempted my own betrayal..." Anora said softly to herself, touching the pane of glass. It was cool, chilled by the outdoor air. _I double-crossed her, and failed. _But even if she hadn't, it was hard to imagine that her father would have been spared. He had been determined to follow his course through to the end. If he _had_ defeated all the Wardens, then Ferelden would be lost under the Archdemon's black shadow.

_It's a wonder that I'm even still alive,_ she thought. The more Anora learned about Akana -- and she had well-trained individuals gathering all the information they could, about the Warden's current activities as well as her past -- the more she realized that by all measures, she should be dead. Anora had violated one of Akana's most cardinal principles: trust. The Warden had gone to great lengths to "save" her from Loghain: even killing a few dozen guards and Ser Cauthrien along with them. Then, when Akana had counted on her support, Anora had sided with her father. So why hadn't she met the same fate as him? Why hadn't Akana sent her head rolling down an aisle at the Landsmeet, eyes still blinking, mouth still trying to speak, a cut so clean that her mind hadn't yet realized it was dead?

Further still, why make her queen? Instead of being punished for her betrayal -- though truly, her father's death was punishment enough -- Anora had been rewarded with that which she sought: rulership. The only reason Anora could think that Akana would _not_ kill her, was to make her the queen. But there had been another option; one that Anora might think would have been _far_ more appealing to the Warden Commander.

Why _not_ choose Alistair? Anora entertained the possibility that Akana thought she was a better choice. Perhaps that _was_ it, but still, the elf Berserker didn't have a good track record for making wise decisions in the heat of battle. Anora would have been an easy target when the fighting started, too: she hadn't been armored, as she hadn't expected violence. So what had stayed her? What motivation was powerful enough to convince Akana to spare her life, even to put the her on the throne?

There was something she wasn't seeing, something she wasn't quite understanding, and just when she thought she'd begun to uncover the answer, a knock came at the door.

"Royal Guard Captain Yarith, Queen Anora. I come with important information from the assassin."

"Come in," Anora responded, turning towards the door.

Yarith entered, passing by her personal bodyguard, and closing the door behind him. He bowed deeply, always so courteous and respectful of tradition. He'd served as Royal Guard for many years now, and Anora trusted him fully. Before she'd met Akana, Anora would have claimed to trust Yarith with her life: now, the Queen didn't think she could say that about anyone. She'd learned that there were certain forces in this world -- the elvish Grey Warden being one of them -- that could take whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. Nothing stood between them and their goals, and lived. Anora had learned that well enough when Ser Cauthrien had been slain.

_Because of me._

"Come in," Anora repeated, gesturing for Yarith to take a seat at one of the tables. "Tell me, what have you found?" The Captain of the Royal Guard walked over, pulled her chair out for her, and once she was seated, placed himself across from her.

"It is troubling news, your Highness."

"All the more reason for me to know it. Please, Yarith, continue." She laced her fingers together, setting her hands on the tabletop.

"An only child, he has spent the better part of the last ten years of his life travelling, acquiring an education from Thedas' greater cities -- the likes of Antiva, Denerim, and Orlais -- as his parents believed would benefit him. His mother and father were of a wealthy merchant status, bordering the cusp of nobility. They died while he was abroad, and he inherited their wealth."

"Was the attempt really motivated by revenge for my father's murder?"

"We believe so."

"I see." Anora fought the urge to let her hands fidget. Well, as much as this complicated things, it was already a known quantity. The assassin had apparently announced his intentions at the Ball just after stabbing the Grey Warden, and enough had heard him say, _'For Teryn Loghain!'_ that it was common knowledge by know. Still, she had hoped there would be a different motive, something that might not so easily point suspicions in _her_ direction. "There has also been talk of some poison involved -- a very deadly one at that. What do you know of this?"

"Very little. The assassin told us that he received a vial of it with a letter that it should be used to kill the Grey Warden Commander. He does not know where it came from, what it was, or who sent the letter. He did not, and still does not, care what his supplier's motivation in trying to kill Grey Warden Akana may be."

"Why don't we know more about the poison itself?"

Yarith hesitated, grimacing. "We would, but we could not find the weapon used. Someone must have taken it from the scene. We suspect one of the Grey Wardens companions."

Anora scowled lightly. Yes, and she could picture the man now: that damned Antivan Crow that had half of her maidens swooning, including Erlina herself. They giggled and flushed whenever he so much as walked past them. He was certainly a fox in the henhouse, and in this case the chickens didn't even realize him for what he was. Questioning Zevran Arainai, however, would be a thorny issue, and it was likely that he'd learn more from _them_ than they learned from _him._ It wasn't as if they could tie him up in some room and beat him like they had the assassin. Even if they could, without severe political ramifications, he would probably laugh in the faces of her interrogators.

"I suppose that it is not incredibly important," she conceded bitterly. "The poison did not work. Find out what you can about the letters, however. Is that all?"

"There is... more, my Queen." Anora's lips tightened, and she gestured for Yarith to continue. "We have traced his lineage, and the assassin is -- distantly, through marriages and uncles -- of relation to you."

The words cut through her, and Anora flinched before she could will herself not to. To make an attempt on the Warden's life during the Queen's Ball was one thing, and to claim it as Loghain's avenger was another. But to also have relation to her?

"Who knows this?"

"Only myself and the two other guardsmen in the room. They are loyal men, and have been sworn to secrecy."

"You've obtained all the information you're likely to get from him?"

"Yes, we believe so."

"Then kill him." Yarith nodded, having expected this. Anora leaned forward slightly, voice firm. "I need not tell you how _crucial_ it is that this looks like an accident. That this must not, in any way, arose more than the minimum amount of suspicion?"

"Of course, my Queen." Yes, this was the safest thing to do. No immediate family to make a fuss, and it wasn't as if he was going to strike sympathy from anyone.

"What's his name?" Anora asked, suddenly curious. It would not affect her decision, but she should know who she was sentencing to a "accidental" death, shouldn't she?

"Your Highness..." Yarith said, standing. He pushed his chair back under the table. "Perhaps it is best for you not to know?"

If she pressed the point, he would tell her immediately. However, Anora thought that he might be right. She would learn it later on, when the news of his death spread. For now, however, that was one more thing she could not concern herself over. One could not be sympathetic towards one's threats.

"You are right, Yarith." She stood, and lead him to the door. They paused for a brief moment. "Thank you for your information, and your service."

"You will never need to thank me, Queen Anora." He bowed again, and took his leave. Before the door shut behind him, Anora recognized Erlina coming down the hall. The handmaiden entered the sitting room, and curtsied in greeting.

"Shall we go over the lines of your speeches today, Lady?" Erlina asked, holding up the scroll in her hand.

"Yes, let's."

And though Anora devoted just enough attention to memorizing the lines and the appropriately somber pauses, her mind was far away. She turned back to her own grieving, to her childhood; Loghain in his youth, teaching her all the things she would need to know to be a leader of men.

"Erlina?" Anora asked finally, halfway through on recital. The woman looked up quietly, tilting her head to the side.

"Yes, Lady?"

"I need eyes in Akana's camp, and I trust you."

"...Anora?" Erlina questioned, forgetting all formalities. Anora heard the uneasiness in her voice, but this had to be done. You had to understand your enemies to conquer them, and even if Akana wasn't her enemy _now_, it was hard to believe that she wouldn't be in the future. The next time there was some elf-human conflict, the Warden would probably be knocking down her door, demanding one thing or another. And that was only if she didn't stir things up more with the mages, first.

"Learn whatever you can."

"Anora, they do not trust me." And why would they? Erlina had gone to them under her orders, begged for their assistance, and then Anora had backstabbed them _twice._ Once during the escape, and once at the Landsmeet. "I do not understand-"

"Go through the Antivan."

"Zev?"

Anora was not exceedingly happy to hear the pet name slide so readily from Erlina's tongue. Was that what all the maids called him, laughing coquettishly behind their hands? Maybe this was the wrong course of action... but what other choice did she have? None of Akana's other companions were so accessible as the Crow, save maybe for Leliana, the Bard. But Anora had never seen Leliana indulge in so much as idle flirtation, even if she was rather chatty. If lips were looser after lovemaking, then her best bet was Zevran.

"Yes."

"What is it you wish me to do... exactly?"

"Don't be coy, Erlina. You've had your eyes on him since before the Landsmeet."

"I-" The handmaiden tried to interject, but Anora rose a hand and silenced her.

"You are not alone, and I know that you haven't acted on it, which shows your sense. Are you willing to do this? If not, tell me now."

Erlina stared at Anora for a few moments, as if she'd sprouted a third eye. Eventually, though, the handmaiden looked away. "I am willing."

In truth, Anora was glad to see that Erlina hadn't lunged for the opportunity. If she'd been too eager, it would have been a bad omen. Anora didn't need those closest to her to be chomping at the bit to sidle up to any of the Warden's companions. "Do not try to outwit the Antivan, Erlina. Do you understand me? Information gathering can swing both ways, and you must be ever mindful of that."

"Of course, Lady."

"And you _must not_ fall for him. As I understand it, Zevran is quite _charming. _I cannot have you swooning over him, or getting your emotions entangled in your duty."

"I... that will not be a problem."

"I am pleased to hear it." There was a dozen or so seconds where they sat without speaking, before Anora nodded. "Well, let's carry on then. Today will be a busy day, and there are other things to worry about."

"Of course," Erlina said again, and they once more set into the rhythm of rehearsing.


	30. All the Way from Orlais

**A/N:** I know this will seem silly, but I feel like even though I know the timeline for the rest of the story (for the most part), it's getting harder to write than easier. I guess it's all the juggling that has to be done now between subplots and characters and whatnot; and I'm only making it worse and worse for myself, lol. That said, I definitely have not forgotten about the story, or anything like that! It just takes me a lot longer to double-check that everything is lined up as it should be (and I'll probably still mess that up at some point, lol).

_Non-account Reviews:_

Witchy Bee: =) Brilliant, nah. A masochist? Probably.

**PS.** I wanna say that I really appreciate every review, even the not-so glowing ones. Those usually tell me more about what I need to work on that the ones that are very kind (which isn't to say I don't like the encouragement too!). That said, I have this enormous pet peeve that was recently tickled.

I acknowledge that Dragon Age was created with a very standard "European Middle Ages" setting in mind. However, it really rubs me the wrong way whenever people assert that any fantasy story of that ilk has to follow what we know about the past -- culture, dialect, dress, whatever. Dragon Age happened in the past in the same way that Star Wars happened in the past. Which is to say, you can't really make a judgment call about a time period for a universe that has no anchoring point within reality as we know it.

I do want to know if things sound out of context for the Dragon Age universe. Personally, I felt like the writing for the game seemed very stylized -- and yes, at times, even a bit confused (kind of like World of Warcraft, if any of you are players). But it always struck me as being very contemporary, relaxed, and even cheekily playful in tone rather than striving to adhere to some stiff idea about the actual Middle Ages. Again, if things I write don't seem to jibe with the overall tenor of the game, I definitely want to know. All the same, it irks be something good when I think there's some "fantasy = historical past + magic" equation going on.

ENOUGH RAMBLING HERE'S SOME MORE STORY.

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**Deschain  
**_"We're off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz!"  
- The Wizard of Oz_

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_

Ser Nicholas Deschain, Commander of the Orlesian Grey Wardens, was having an unusually difficult time shaving. Part of this was due to the fact that he'd grown unaccustomed to using the slightly tarnished hand mirror to guide himself. Earlier in his life, when he'd be out on missions every few months, he'd grown quite good at it: now he was out of practice.

More significantly, however, his hands were trembling ever-so-lightly. For an Orlesian, Deschain had never been overly concerned with appearances and grooming, but even he wanted to look as presentable as possible for the meeting to come. They would reach Denerim by mid-day: the current lodgings of the only two surviving Wardens of Ferelden's Order.

_One of which has defied the demand of sacrifice, a demand which is placed on every Grey Warden. _

There was a sharp pinch of coldness, and then heat: he'd nicked himself, the blotch of red spreading over his cheek. With a damp cloth he dabbed at the small cut, cursing himself for letting his mind wander. But how could it not?

Grey Warden Alistair, apparently the bastard child of King Maric and half-brother to the fallen King Cailan, had sent him a letter by messenger falcon a few days ago. The words expressed great relief as well as confusion, while other elements told even more: the dark blotting where a quill had lingered on some words, light and thin letters of words that had come naturally. Generally, the ink was heaviest where the man Alistair had tried to explain what had happened. Praising his fellow Warden as resilient and '_the Maker's gift to Ferelden' _hadn't been nearly as trying. Did that mean he was lying?

Hard to tell. Impossible, really. Deschain planned to see for himself. Though _he_ certainly couldn't think of a way that the Hero of Ferelden had avoided the unavoidable, that didn't mean he was ready to believe that _they_ didn't know anything of it. If it truly was a miracle, he believed that would be clear.

If it wasn't...

Deschain hesitated, staring at himself in the small mirror and steadying his hand before pressing the blade back to his cheek. If it _wasn't_ a miracle, and they _had_ devised some way of thwarting death, he wasn't sure how he'd react. It all depended on the situation. Tradition and ritual were powerful things, but he was not unsympathetic to the desire to subvert that last section of the Grey Warden tenant: _in death, sacrifice._

No... with each passing day he became more sympathetic indeed. At least four time a week he woke up drenched in cold sweat, heart beating fast and shallow in his chest. There would be short-lived moments where he thought he actually felt his blood turning against him, thickening in his veins, crawling and bulging under his skin. They were brief, lasting only seconds, but it seemed they grew longer with each month.

His time had come. He was not long for the Deep Roads now.

The thought of the Dead Trenches scared him witless, and he could not even admit that fear to himself. Not in daylight, at least. But he knew, deep in his core, and when he woke to the sensation of fire in his bones, with nothing but the blackness of night to comfort him...

Deschain had always thought that he'd be ready, when his time came. Wasn't that how all great, heroic Wardens went? He thought he'd come to terms with the taint devouring his body, hungering even still for his spirit. Thirty years had seemed like such a _long_ time, when he was still concerned about growing hair evenly on his face. Now he was an old man, and apparently not going to get much older, and he had no sagely wisdom to comfort him. No accepting resolve to lean upon.

So yes, if these Wardens had figured something out, some way to deny the very taint in their blood which should have called to the Archdemon like a moth to flame? Well, then they were very clever or very reckless, and he wished to know all that he could. Of course there were some dishonors worse than even the Dead Trenches; but he was not an unreasonable man.

In the reflection of the mirror, he saw one of the other Wardens approaching behind him. "Hello, David," Deschain greeted the man, and continued shaving. David gave him a curt nod. "What news?"

"We're ready to begin that last stretch of the trek to Denerim, Commander. We've packed up camp, and we set off at your order."

"Very well. Soon, David. Make sure everyone is at least presentable, will you?"

"Yes Commander." The young man nodded, his curly brown hair neatly groomed. He left Deschain to finish up his shave.

Once he'd finished, Deschain washed his face off, and patted it dry. Gently, he prodded the place where he'd cut himself. The blood looked as normal as ever, and the wound was already starting to seal itself. Before he could stare too long, he put the mirror away. There was business to conduct.

- - - - -

The didn't arrive to great fanfare, and he was certain that the Queen, Anora, had planned as much. She was ever the daughter of her father, the late Teyrn Loghain, and Loghain had been no lover of Orlesian troops. The fact that they were Grey Wardens probably didn't mean much, one way or another. If anything, her father had had quite a chip on his shoulder when it came to Wardens, as Deschain understood it – and that had gotten him killed. The Orelsian Warden Commander was already eager to shake the hand that delivered a blow to such a traitor.

As they moved through the city to Fort Drakon, everything was draped in mourning. People wept openly in the streets; they'd had two days to rejoice that their world had not ended, and now was the time to realize thoroughly all they _had_ lost. That said, his small band (roughly a dozen men and women) were welcomed by all those they passed. They were thanked for their service, even though they'd done nothing to stop this Blight. It warmed Deschain's heart, even if he could not accept any credit for the great deed that had been done.

And still, it was sobering to see such a great city ransacked. The damage could have been far worse, the whole place could be one smoldering crater -- and would be, if not for Ferelden's heroes -- but he saw the marks of war. Denerim would recover, and quickly, but it was still a stark contrast to the city he remembered visiting decades ago. It hadn't rivaled Val Royeaux, the Capital of Orlais, but it'd had it's own industrious charm. Much of that now lay under rubble and cinders.

Several guardsmen escorted them, and exchanged words with the men stationed outside of the castle. Within moments they passed through it's barriers, and Deschain felt his heart pounding in his chest. Even his mount noticed his anxiety, her long ears swiveling back and forth. The mare let out a snort under him, and he patted her neck reassuringly, for his own sake.

_You're like a boy,_ Deschain thought to himself, but there was no bite in it. How could he not be excited? In moments he would stand before the greatest hero to live in four centuries. The man and woman who had stopped the Blight _before_ it had destroyed nations in its wake. This, _this_ was why he'd become a Grey Warden. It made everything, all the sacrifices, seem worth it.

They dismounted as they approached the inner gates. Walking, he could sense the nervy anticipation in his Wardens by their body language. Some were better at hiding it than others, but no one was immune. An Archdemon had died upon the very fortress in front of them; he could see their heads tilting ever so slightly, as if trying to picture the battle that had happened.

Then quite suddenly they were _there._ They passed under the inner gateway, and before them rose many stone steps, leading to the castle's entrance. At the top, he could see several figures. One of them, the one in the center, was certainly Queen Anora. But more important, to her right...

Deschain's eyes focused on the man first, looking him over as they began to ascend the steps. He looked like any other young soldier: broad shoulders, muscular build, strong and healthy. There was nothing to distinguish him as having royal lineage, nothing that set him apart in any way. At least not until he smiled, a private gesture meant for the woman at his side, as he said something quietly out of the side of his mouth to her. Then he changed, somehow marked by love and humor in a way that no crest or clothing could achieve.

Which turned Deschain's eyes towards the woman at Grey Warden Alistair's side.

She was... _small._

Gods save him, it was the only thing he could think for a few seconds, as his feet carried him dumbly up the steps to the greatest hero he'd ever meet.

It wasn't just that Grey Warden Akana was short, either, because one of his own troops was an ex-Silent Sister. It just seemed like a strange joke, somehow, that such a petite looking woman (her elvish features were partially responsible) was the most capable fighter Ferelden had to offer. She couldn't have been more than five and half feet even _in_ boots, and she looked to be several inches shorter than that.

When he had recovered enough to notice more than her height, he tried to commit more of her to memory. Her face was tattooed with what appeared to be a serpent coiling around one eye, and she had hair so silver-white that it almost hard to look at with the sun shining down mercilessly. She was wearing armor, and he wondered if it was the same stuff she'd used when she'd felled the Great Beast. Rumor had it that she'd had her armor crafted out of the scales of a dragon she and her companions had killed.

And even if he could get past the _smallness_, which he was desperately struggling to do before reaching the landing, Deschain just couldn't believe how normal she looked. Yes she was an elf, yes her hair was unnaturally pale, and yes she had a facial tattoo; but there was nothing that struck him with awe. Nothing that would place her as the icon he'd built up in his mind.

Which of course, made him wonder what he _had_ been expecting. A ten-foot-tall golem? He had no idea what he must have thought she would look like, but this was not it.

One of his boots reached the platform, and then the other. There was a wide, sheltered corridor, and at the end were the great doors which lead into Fort Drakon. The Queen smiled welcomingly at him -- and not entirely falsely -- and Deschain returned the gesture, coming to a low bow. The rest of his Wardens followed suit.

"Ser Nicholas Deschain, Commander of the Orlesian Grey Wardens. It is an honor," Queen Anora greeted him, and he rose back to his feet.

"The honor is all mine, your Highness. To stand in the present company is a gift beyond measure." She smiled at him again, though he was fairly certain that she knew he meant the other Grey Wardens. Still, he didn't go out of his way to clarify: he had no problem with appeasing the freshly widowed Queen.

"Welcome to Denerim. Lodgings have been arranged for you and your men. I would be very pleased if you might all dine with us later. I would love to talk then, but I'm afraid that I have duties that must be attended to. This is our first day of mourning."

"As you wish, your Highness. We are grateful for your hospitality. If there is anything we can do to help, we are at your disposal."

"I don't believe that will be necessary, but thank you for the sentiment. Before I depart, however, I must introduce you to the Hero of Ferelden. These are Grey Wardens Alistair and Akana. If not for their efforts, this city would not be here today. I'm sure that you have much to discuss."

Hurriedly, but still gracefully, Queen Anora took her leave. And then Deschain and his troops were left at the top of Fort Drakon, facing down the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden. A long moment of awkward silence stretched between them, and he realized that neither Alistair nor the heroine Akana knew at all what they were supposed to do, either.

The woman took the first step, however. With the faintest bit of an eye-roll and the slightest shrug, she walked towards him. She extended out a hand for a shake, and Deschain came back to himself. With all the wily nerves of his youth, he bent low, taking her hand lightly and kissing the back of it. He could feel the rough places where a sword's hilt had rested time and time again in her grip, but that thought completely left him when he pressed his lips to her knuckles.

Everything changed.

His chest loosened, his back straightened, strength that he hadn't realized had dissipated in his age rushed back into his limbs. He felt euphoric, as one does with the sudden absence of pain -- pain that had crept up on him so slowly and so wholly that he hadn't even realized it was there. The squirming in his gut, behind his eyelids, was gone. He felt _alive._ He felt young.

Untainted.

Realizing that he'd lingered a moment too long, and shocked by this overwhelming sensation, Deschain quickly withdrew. As soon as he pulled away from the woman, all the aches he hadn't known were plaguing his body set in once again. He was only stopped from crying out in lament by the fact that his voice would not come when summoned. Age beyond his years seeped back into his bones, and his blood once again burned hotter than it should. The taint returned as quickly as it had disappeared, and he was left with only the memory of life without it. That memory grew ever more beautiful with every second that he was trapped feeling his own body's decay.

The Hero watched him skeptically, and he did his best to regain his composure. "Good to see you, Ser Nicholas Deschain," the Hero said, her voice rough and sweet at once.

"Just Deschain," he replied, trying to rev himself back into something like functioning order. But Maker, he _hurt._ "Call me Deschain, if you would."

She smiled at that, and he took it as a sign that she wasn't very interested in titles or formalities. "All right, Deschain. 'Fraid you and your folks missed the fight," she said with a small laugh, and rubbed the back of her neck nervously. "But I'll tell you, you're all a damn good sight now."

"Not as good as you are, Grey Warden Akana," Deschain replied. He'd been wrong, so _terribly_ wrong about her. Now he could see how special she was, in the way that she wanted to laugh, wanted to be past this and to the point that joking was permissible. He could see the way she held herself, without the discipline of a soldier, but all the confidence of a warrior. All he could think was that he wanted to _touch_ her again, wanted to see if he could feel like he had just a moment ago. Even being close to her seemed to have the effect, though much milder. What was she? Was this what had allowed her to survive killing the Archdemon?

"With all due respect, Deschain, you're staring at me pretty hard. Have I got food in my teeth or something?"

_Damn._

"Not at all," he smiled smoothly. If she were anything like Orlesian women that he'd known -- and she probably _wasn't_, but old habits died hard -- she'd find the grin pleasantly rugged. He hoped it would be enough cover. "I was thinking that they had told me you were an elf, but I had to see it for myself."

Her eyes, the color of winter-sky trapped in a smoky crystal, flickered. The Hero's smile dropped, noticeably, and he heard a different edge in her voice. "They were right. But what does that have to do with anything?" Though the question was legitimate, what was more important was the tone she used: barbed. If he pushed, she would push back. He was glad to know it.

"Well, I just figured that that makes two Blights in a row now, doesn't it?"

"Huh?"

Deschain was taken aback by the total confusion in her eyes. Surely she couldn't _not_ know even that bit of Grey Warden lore? Did not _everyone_ know the story?

"The last Grey Warden to stop a Blight was an elf from Orlais named Garahel."

"Oh." The name caused a spark of recognition to flit across her features, but it was no more than that. And then she looked embarrassed, and he felt awful for it. "I've heard the name I just... I didn't realize he was a elf." That any Warden could not know every detail about the last Blight and the Battle of Ayesleigh struck Deschain as unacceptable.

But he knew her story, had thought of it ceaselessly on the journey to Denerim. She'd only been Joined on the same night that all her fellow Wardens -- save Alistair -- were betrayed and slain. There had never been time for her to hear the stories properly.

Well, he could certainly fix that. And if he told her stories about the Grey Wardens (which in a way would be stories about herself, too), maybe she would tell _him_ how it was that she still lived.

"Garahel certainly was an elf. And at this rate, your people will put us all to shame with their heroism." Deschain broadened his smile, and he saw the Grey Warden across from him blink. She eyed him warily for a moment, and then smiled back. He felt that darkness ebb away again, and he didn't know that a breath of air could be so wonderfully filling.

_She's half your age,_ he scolded himself, but that had never really stopped him before. The biggest deterrent had nothing to do with her age or her race, but rather the fact that she was more than his equal in the eyes of the Order.

"Maybe we will at that," Grey Warden Akana smirked. "But I didn't do it alone. I'd like you to meet Alistair. If it weren't for him..." She turned and gestured for Alistair to approach, and her voice faltered.

"Oh please," the other Warden smiled cheekily. "All I did was stand around and look pretty. Akana did all the heavy lifting, I assure you." He held out his hand and Deschain shook it: it didn't escape him that Alistair squeezed awfully firmly, and he wondered if that was supposed to be some sort of warning. He duly ignored it if it was, returning the pressure. It was just as likely that the kid was nervous to meet another Commander.

Greetings were exchanged, and each of Deschain's Wardens paid their respects to the Hero of Ferelden. There was some strained small talk at first, but then the conversation shifted naturally to fighting Darkspawn. The tension in the air lifted as they each found common ground in the subject, chuckling and sharing quick stories. Deschain remained as close to the Hero's side as he could without drawing too much suspicion.

They had resolved to all go grab a pint, and were heading back down the stairs, when Deschain spotted someone rushing up to them. Another elf from the look of him, and his blonde hair glinted as he sprinted towards them. Immediately Deschain's hand went to his sword hilt, but Commander Akana pushed past him.

"Shit," he heard her breathe, and then she broke out into a run. Akana must have known this man, because she flew down the stairs four or five at a time, a pace that would have resulted in a broken neck if Deschain had tried it. She met the other elf at the foot of the stairs, and they collided roughly, breaking their speed only enough to avoid bowling each other over.

The blonde elf grabbed the Grey Warden roughly around her upper arms, leaning over her as he caught enough of his breath to speak. Deschain frowned to see the Hero so manhandled, but there was clearly something he wasn't aware of. Alistair was descending the stairs too now, but had to take them much more carefully than his fellow Warden.

"What? Zevran, _what_?"

"He's been murdered," Deschain heard the man, Zevran, choke out.

"Who?" Now it was Akana's turn to grab him by the shoulders, giving him a hard shake. "_Who?_"

"Your assassin. I found him dead in his cell." The look in the blonde man's eyes was fire and brimstone, and it was clear that he'd run here all the way from wherever he'd been. Color was high in his cheeks, and his nostrils flared as he pulled in breath.

"And you think that he was-"

"I _know_ that it was murder, Akana. Someone is trying to cover their tracks."


	31. I Thought You Told Her!

**A/N: **Long time no post, but I haven't forgotten about the story! I've been getting bizarre errors from for a while, but I think they might be resolved. Anyways, no spoilers or anything, but the next chapter opens up a fresh can of worms that I think is a bit overdue. ;) For now though, some Zevran!

_Non-Account Reviews  
_

Leecy: ONE SITTING! Oh man, I don't think **_I_ **could read this all in one sitting! Thank you so much for all the high praise. Though there are far too many Warrior companions in the game, I think an Akana-type character would have made a fun NPC -- especially as a romancable option. Very different than Morrigan or Leilana. She might have made a better NPC than a PC, even. Guess Ferelden will just have to deal with her being the Hero, in this story. ;)

* * *

**Zevran**

_"It is wise to disclose what cannot be concealed."_  
- Johann Friedrich Von Schiller

* * *

Zevran woke up with a familiar sensation of emptiness inside of his chest. It'd been months since he felt this way -- not since Akana had spared his life. The deadened feeling inside had always been present during his time with the Crows, and now it'd returned to him. It was maybe a little worrisome, but more than that, he took comfort in it. Better not to feel all the exquisite agony of realizing he'd been foolish enough to want what he couldn't have.

He left the Pearl after paying for their services, and returned to his room in the estate. After sliding into his armor, and stowing away a couple daggers, he ate a light breakfast. Once or twice the numbness that had settled over his spirit began to abate, but he held fast to it. Zevran wasn't prepared to confront those demons just yet. Instead, he sipped some black coffee and had his fill of grapes and apricots.

When that was taken care of, he'd gone to see Akana's assassin for a second time. The goal of this visit was to acquire information, which meant that it would be a much less unpleasant experience for the boy, as long as he complied. Zevran had no reason to suspect that he _wouldn't_ cooperate -- it wasn't like Zevran was going to have to waste time showing that he was serious. Not after their last encounter.

Zevran evaded the guards without trouble, and slipped into the lower level of the dungeon where the assassin was being held. There was more light, now, coming in blearily through the small upper windows. He liked the place better in the dark; with the light it was just easier to see how dingy and disgusting the cells were. He picked his way over to the cell that housed the boy.

When he looked into the cell, it took him several seconds to realize what he was seeing.

The boy's body swayed very slightly, his chest naked. Wrapped around his neck was a noose made of his shirt, the other part tied in a knot around one of the upper bars of his cell. A stool was knocked over by his feet.

Zevran's aura of impassivity shattered. Panic bulged in his throat, along with anger, and even moreso, fear for Akana. He picked the cell's lock and within moments was standing on the stool, so that he could inspect the corpse. The boy had been dead for at least an hour. Zevran didn't take him down: he knew full well that this was no suicide. For one, the stool hadn't been here last night. For two...

He carefully pulled the taut, tangled cloth away from one section of the boy's neck. The smell hadn't started in yet, but it wouldn't take very long now. The bruises around the flesh of his throat were not from the rope: they were much larger, and Zevran could even pick out the distinct shape of fingers. He'd been choked to death, and then strung up after he was already killed.

Taking only enough time to carefully lay the stool on its side as he'd found it, and locking the cell behind him once more, Zevran left the dungeon as quickly as he could. He knew that Akana and Alistair would be meeting with the Orlesian Wardens today at Fort Drakon, which meant they were not far at all. Still, he had to circle around to the Fort's front gates: it'd be too suspicious if he simply walked out of the interior doors. Slowing only when he needed to pass by any guards, Zevran ran as fast as his legs would take him.

By the time he reached the steps to the front doors, his chest and throat burned. He spotted a group of armed and armored men and women at the top of the stairs, including Akana. She must have noticed him as well, because she began rushing to meet him. He could see the concern on her face as she recognized his distress. Zevran's boots slid across the path, and dust rose up around her legs when they met.

Zevran's hands closed tightly around her arms, and he remembered the feel of her last night, and the desire to kiss her returned in full force. What an idiot he'd been to allow things feelings to develop, and doubly so if he thought they'd be cured in the span of hours. When he tried to speak, the words caught in his throat, and he was forced to gulp down a few more mouthfuls of air.

"What? Zevran, _what_?" Akana stared at him, allowing his fingers to dig into her arms.

"He's been murdered," Zevran pushed the words out, straining his tightened throat.

"Who? _Who?_" She rose her hands and grabbed him at his shoulders, and when he didn't spit an answer out fast enough, shook him.

"Your assassin. I found him dead in his cell."

She blinked, and he saw her jaw drop for a moment, before recovering. "And you think that he was-"

"I _know_ that it was murder, Akana. Someone is trying to cover their tracks." Her grip on him went slack, though her hands remained where they were. From this position it would be quite easy to draw her into an embrace, and as soon as he thought it, he wanted to. He wanted to plant a feverish kiss at her temple, and then listen for her orders. Zevran wanted her to direct him. He was eager to make whoever had crossed her regret the day they were brought screaming into this world -- and then send them screaming out of it.

Zevran saw someone else reach the bottom of the stairs from the corner of his eye: Alistair. "Wait, explain this all again?" The Templar demanded, and rather than pull Akana to him, Zevran carefully removed her hands from his biceps. She immediately began to rub her temples. "How do you know?"

Keeping one eye on Akana, Zevran relayed what he'd seen. Alistair frowned at him sternly, and Akana had her eyes pressed tightly together, as if the harder she closed them, the less true any of it would be. It was a sign that this was getting to her, and Zevran was painfully aware that it took a lot for the female Warden to try to block something out rather than face it down as she usually did.

"Wait, why were you visiting the guy anyway?" Alistair asked haughtily.

"As I told you, information. In particular, I wanted to retrieve it before he'd been too worked over by the guards and started babbling everything and anything he thought would grant him reprieve."

"Riiight," Alistair narrowed his eyes, and Zevran felt his temple tic, though he refused to give in to squabbling, especially in front of Akana. "For all we know, _you_ killed him."

Zevran was about to roll his eyes when Akana make an irritated noise in her throat. "Alistair," she reprimanded. The single word was as much of a scolding as she usually gave to her companions, and Zevran was at least decent enough not to smirk triumphantly. Particularly because _he_ didn't want to be scolded, either. "You're sure he didn't kill _himself_?"

"I am certain, my Lady. The bruises alone are enough, but there was other evidence, such as the stool."

"Which means you were there last night, too." Alistair stared openly at him. This time, Akana didn't rein him in. Instead, she turned her eyes on the Crow, and Zevran felt discomfort prick along his skin. Guilt. She didn't ask him to explain himself, but when she looked at him that way, he _had_ to say something.

"Yes. There are... many stages to interrogation-"

"You mean torture." Alistair interjected, and Akana closed her eyes, clearly overwhelmed. Zevran's lip quivered with the urge to pull back into a snarl.

"I obtained no information last night. If you want to forcibly extract information from someone, they have to know you are... committed. It helps if they have time to think on it. So, I came back earlier today."

Alistair drew in a quick breath, ready to snap back some retort that was supposed to show how vile Zevran was, while he himself was clearly the pinnacle of morality. As his lips pursed around the words, however, Akana stopped him, putting a palm against his chest. "Don't," she ordered, and he immediately stood down.

_More obedient than a Mabari, _Zevran sneered internally, but the thought was laced with jealousy, and his gaze hovered overlong on those splayed fingers.

"What does this mean, then? It's clear you've already got some ideas, Zev, so you might as well share them while we're all still young and pretty." Akana continued sardonically, and her hand dropped back to her side. Zevran imagined that he saw Alistair flinch at the nickname.

"Well, it's clear that whoever killed him either had access to the cells and was permitted by the guards, or was adept enough to get past them without their knowing. The latter isn't unthinkable -- I've done it twice in less than a day's time. However, the security has been quite heavy. They would need to very skilled at moving without detection."

"So we might have _another _assassin on our hands. A half-decent one, this time," Akana frowned.

"Perhaps. Though it's just as likely that the guards themselves did it."

"Why?" Alistair asked, rubbing the back of his neck. He seemed to have calmed himself somewhat. "Because they were angry?"

That was certainly one way to put it. If they had shared so much as a touch of Zevran's cold fury, without the incredible restraint it'd taken not to leave that boy as a soupy puddle in the cell, then it was even _probable_ that they'd done it. Akana was a public hero: it was entirely possible that some vigilante wanted to take it upon him or herself to avenge her.

"It could be. Though I'm afraid there are more sinister possibilities, as well. Someone may not have wanted the captured assassin to give them up."

"So he could have been working with someone. There might be a whole group of these..." Alistair's voice trailing off, unable to find the insults appropriate enough to express the repulsion that was contorting his features.

"Yes. Or the guards might have been ordered to do it."

Zevran watched the Templar's reaction closely: this was perhaps one of the only real conversations he'd ever had with the man. At least, if you didn't count those that were marked by meaningless (unrequited) flirting, comedic jabs, or snarling stand-offs. He attributed it to mutual concern for Akana's well-being. It was good to see that he was feeling more cooperative.

"There aren't that many people who can exactly order the Royal Guard around," Alistair finally said, very reluctantly.

"Fuck that," Akana suddenly quipped, and Zevran realized that she'd been holding her peace, listening to them talk back and forth without comment for quite some time. "_Fuck_ that. You're saying that Ano-"

"Akana," Zevran warned in an urgent whisper, and lightly reached out. He didn't extend his hand far enough to actually touch her, as he wanted to. That seemed like it would have been a breach of conduct, especially after last night. "This is not the best place to mention names. But yes, that is also a possibility."

"This is crazy," Alistair grumbled. "Crazy. I can't even- crazy. No. Nonono. I'm not even going to start _thinking_ that way-"

"We know that whoever was assisting the assassin has access to considerable resources," Zevran replied. Akana frowned a little in confusion.

"And she's Loghain's daughter. But no, _no_. She wouldn't. I mean, what could she gain?"

"A good question indeed; one would think the risks would outweigh the benefits. However, we must face the reality that she is a prime suspect, all the same."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Akana grumbled, her mood clearly fouled. Zevran could tell by her tight-lipped tone that she wasn't speaking because she had nothing but streams of curses to offer. While he imagined the release would do her some good, he knew as well as she did that if she started, it might be hard to stop her. And there was no assurance that someone wouldn't overhear bits and pieces.

When he looked at the Berserker, it was with another heap of worry. She didn't hold very many things in; while Akana was a complex woman underneath the obstinate adherence to brash behavior, she generally wasn't mysterious or secretive. She didn't have practice keeping her frustrations or intentions inside, especially not when there were targets around that she could focus on instead. Already the pressure of waiting, thinking, and maintaining control seemed to be building up in her.

Zevran knew some very good ways of relieving that tension. Sexually, of course, and while cynics might have scoffed, that didn't change the results. He knew how to pierce through just enough of that shell that some of that steam came shrieking out; leaving everything intact, and eliminating the risk of a violent meltdown. If she let him, he would have done it again and again. However, he was certainly not fool enough to suggest it. Perhaps the Assassin had gotten away with jesting about it in the past, but he'd changed the game last night. Now he wasn't sure it was his place to even _joke_ about the things he desperately wanted to show to her, make her feel...

"What were you talking about, before?" Akana asked, looking at him, pulling him away from his other thoughts. "What 'considerable resources'? I mean, he _did_ get into the masquerade I suppose. Other than that, there was a cheap iron blade and some poison. It wasn't anything elaborate. He walked up and stabbed me."

"Some poison? You mean Blackheart's Nectar?" Zevran asked, brow furrowing. _Some poison_, indeed.

"What?" She asked bluntly, and he saw no recognition of the name in her eyes. Zevran felt his gut twist. Both he and Alistair looked at each other, nervously, which only made Akana more suspicious. "Wait, what are you talking about? What Nectar? Is there something I don't know?" Her eyes narrowed; her tone wasn't accusing. Not _yet_ at least. She trusted them both fully, and the idea that they'd withheld information from her hadn't even occurred to her.

"You didn't tell her?" Zevran finally said slowly, to Alistair. Really, he'd thought the Templar would -- he told her everything, didn't he? It wasn't like the man didn't have ample opportunity; they shared a room and a bed! Plus, it was news that best came from her lover and closest confidant, even if that person was as _dull_ as Alistair could be.

"Me?" Alistair remarked, tone rising a couple of octaves. "You're the expert on the subject!" Zevran pursed his lips.

"Okay, _what are you guys talking about!_ What didn't you tell me?" Akana snapped. She stepped further between the two of them, as if to position herself in a way that they couldn't ignore her. It didn't really have the desired effect: Alistair's chin was still at least an inch over the top of her head, and even Zevran was tall enough to have a clear view of the man's face.

When it was clear that Alistair was going to offer no help, Zevran made an exasperated noise, and turned his eyes back to Akana.

"The poison that the blade was coated with... it is called Blackheart's Nectar. Leliana does the story more justice than I, but suffice to say, it is the most deadly poison in history." Akana arched an eyebrow, and he saw her anger dissipate into mild irritation; suddenly she wasn't so upset that they hadn't told her, because she didn't believe it. "It is exceedingly rare. I had thought there was only one vial in existence, kept deep within the vaults of the Antivan Crows' most guarded catacombs."

"If it's that special, how come it didn't kill me?" But even as she asked, Zevran saw Akana considering his words. Doubt flickered over her eyes, and one of her hands drifted to her side. '_But_ _it still aches,'_ he remembered her saying last night. '_I've never had something hurt after Wynne had tended to it. My insides feel snarled.' _He thought that she was perhaps recalling that conversation as well. If she did, she'd also remember him assuring her that it was nothing.

Sure enough, anger did begin to creep back into her features. It was a different sort than before, though, slow-burning. Well, this was the price they would pay for trying to keep things from her, well-intentioned or not.

"I do not know. I... when I saw what it was at the masquerade, I thought you were-" Zevran's throat closed forcefully, against his will, and he found himself blinking quickly as he looked away. If Alistair noticed, and there was no way he could _miss_ it, he at least had the decency not to say anything. "I don't know how you survived. As I explained to Leliana, Alistair, and Oghren -- while you were talking with Wynne -- even a couple drops of poison with that toxicity should have been more than enough to kill an adult woman. Even a remarkably strong one."

"You all knew, then. You all knew this, and _no one_ said anything to me? When were you planning on telling me?" Her gaze moved from him to Alistair and back, and both men hung their heads. "It wasn't for gods-damned lack of opportunity, _either._" She spat the last word, and drew back from them. "Though that explains a lot. I had one foot in the grave. I was _beyond the veil._ The things I saw, the way it _felt_, like the taste of dust and frost and saltwater-" Akana squeezed her eyes shut, and when they reopened, they were overly bright and wet. The look pierced Zevran like a lance straight through his core, and from the slumping of the Templar's shoulders beside him, he guessed it was a shared feeling. "And you, you didn't _tell_ me about this?"

"It's only been a day, not even, Akana," Alistair tried to offer. "It wouldn't have been right, to tell you, right after Wynne-"

"-what Alistair means to say, is that we were happy that you were alive. We thought that you should at least get as much rest as you could for the night, as it was a very trying day-"

"Fuck both of you," Akana snarled. The hurt in her voice matched her anger, and he knew that that was the worst of it: the sense of betrayal. They'd violated her trust by not telling her, and all the reasons and excuses in the world wouldn't soothe that burn.

"Commander Tabris, is everything all right? I don't mean to intrude, but you left suddenly and there seems to be no small amount of distress at this gentleman's arrival." All three of them looked over to the voice. One of the Grey Wardens was descending the stairs towards them, a look of consternation on his face. He was tall, broad of shoulder, and his otherwise inkwell-black hair had a burst of gray at the temples.

"Deschain, this is Zevran Araini. Zevran Araini, Ser Nicholas Deschain, Commander of the Orlesian Grey Wardens." The words were clipped, terser than terse as she forced them through a clenched jaw. Zevran withdrew further into himself when he heard the way she used his last name. She'd introduced to others many times before, especially over the last few days. It'd always been Zevran -- even Zev once or twice -- and often with a colorful, playful epithet. _Zev: the Crow Who Couldn't_ had been one of his favorites, because she would grin and sometimes throw in a wink as well.

Now she pronounced his name with nothing but cold disdain. He knew that it wasn't solely directed at him, that Alistair and this man Deschain must have already met. Still, he felt the cut all the same.

Deschain surveyed the situation, before quietly turning to Zevran. "The Antivan Crow, correct?"

"Yes," Zevran managed, more a hiss than anything else.

Deschain extended his hand. Forcing himself through the motions, Zevran shook it. "An honor." When he met Deschain's eyes, however, he could see that 'honor' wasn't the choice word on the tip of the older Warden's tongue. A Grey Warden who wasn't fond of Assassins, surprise surprise.

"Yes," Zevran said again. "What an honor to meet you."

There was a long moment of strained silence between the four of them.

Finally, Deschain cleared his throat. "Commander Tabris, I... this may just be rather vicious rumor, but my men are saying they heard that there was a recent attempt on your life? I wouldn't call attention to it, but even I have heard the talk."

Zevran closed his eyes, and he heard Alistair groan under his breath.

With a snort of humorless laughter, Akana slapped both Zevran and Alistair on their backs. It was _far_ harder than a gentle clap, and he knew there would likely be a bruise. "Actually, I'll let my two boys here explain everything. Apparently, they know more about it than I do." Deschain opened his mouth, as if to say something, but was obviously too confused.

"Nice to meet you Deschain. I'll see you later tonight, at Anora's wonderful dinner. You might want to wear your armor."

"Er-" The Orlesian Commander began, but Zevran heard her walk away, nearly stomping with each step.


	32. Dark Promise

**A/N: **This chapter, and the idea in it I guess, is what inspired me to start this fanfic to begin with. This was actually going to be the _second chapter_ in the original idea I had, so as you guys can imagine, things kind of exploded outwards. Not that I'm totally remiss about that or anything, but, a nice little bit of perspective. ;)

Anyways, for folks that have been reading for a couple months now, I'm sure this gets a big "Fiiinally!"

* * *

**Alistair**

_"The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep." **  
**_- Robert Frost

_

* * *

_

Zevran had his head half tilted back, his eyes shut in closed-off disappointment, and Deschain was turning to him, now that Akana had left. The older Warden's dark eyes gauged him up and down, his face pulled into a long look of confusion.

"Did I say something that offended her? It was not my intention-"

"No," Alistair replied grimly. "Trust me, we did that well enough by ourselves."

"I see," Deschain said, though he still sounded bewildered. "It's true, then? There was an assassination attempt?"

"Yes."

"What did she mean, that you two know more about it than she does?" The Grey Warden asked the question the way any military authority would: as if he had every right to know. Alistair briefly wondered if he should tell the man to bugger off, Commander or no. He wondered what, specifically, the chain of command was -- could an Orlesian Commander really make him do anything? -- but he figured that almost any way you cut it, the least he should do was respect a very reasonable request for information. Akana _had_ just stormed off, after all.

"We knew more details about the poison the assassin used than we let her know. It only just happened last night, and we wanted to give her time to recover." _She's making a much bigger deal about it than it should be,_ Alistair wanted to add, but talking about Akana like that in front of this near-stranger, especially one with his position, didn't seem prudent.

"I have a passing knowledge of poisons. What was it? She seems perfectly healthy now." Again, Alistair had the urge to tell him to mind his own business. Zevran shot him a look that he couldn't interpret: whether a warning, or just curiosity to see how he'd explain it, the Templar wasn't sure.

"Poisons aren't really my forte. Zevran here assured us it was Blackheart's Nectar, though." He gestured towards the elf with one hand, and enjoyed the look of slight surprise on his face. _Yeah, we're in this together, pal._

Deschain scowled, and appeared to be trying to decide if they were toying with him. "Blackheart's Nectar?" He asked, looking between them skeptically. "The Blackheart's Nectar? As in-"

"As in the mythical, god-killing serum coveted by assassins and worshipped in the dark underbellies of all cities across Thedas? Yes, the one." Zevran responded, more than a little pointedly.

"But-"

"But: it doesn't exist, and probably never did. But: even if it did, how did the assassin get a hold of it? But: if it _was _Blackheart's Nectar, Akana should not still be alive," Zevran continued, his voice controlled. Alistair, however, recognized the cold fire in the blonde man's eyes. Alistair almost wanted to tell him to change his tone -- this was a Grey Warden _Commander_ after all -- but he didn't. He wanted to see how Deschain would respond.

The older man's frown-lines deepened, but he didn't become flustered, or even agitated. Instead, he digested this information slowly. Yes, the more Alistair watched him, the more the man reminded him of Duncan, in a way. But what had Akana said...

They'd been standing at the top of the stairs as they watched the troupe of Wardens approach. The Orlesian Commander had been at the head, and Alistair had leaned over slightly, whispering out of the side of his mouth to Akana. She was the only other person (that he personally knew) who had met the former Fereldan Commander and still lived. "He looks like Duncan," Alistair had mentioned.

Akana had made a face like someone had just walked over her grave. "He is not Duncan," she murmured, like she was repeating something she'd been told. There was no recognition in her eyes, though, and she seemed just as surprised by the words as he was.

"What's that mean?" Alistair had asked.

"Beats me," she'd shrugged, and just like that the moment passed.

"There were some rumors going around about a vial of Blackheart's Nectar in Orlais, not weeks ago," Deschain explained in an even voice. "I'm not sure that it has anything to do with the incident, but if what you say is correct, there may be some correlation."

"What rumors?" Zevran asked. He was less aggressive, perhaps appeased by the fact that Deschain wasn't outright refusing to believe him (as Alistair had).

"That a vial of the poison had surfaced, and-" Deschain's eyes moved to Alistair, "-our lovely Darksun contingent was getting restless at about the same time. We're not sure if it's interlinked, but an attack on a Grey Warden seems like it could very well be related."

"Darksun?" Zevran asked coolly.

"You're joking," Alistair groaned in reply. Deschain smiled thinly.

"No, unfortunately I am not. The Darksun Cult," the Commander continued, bowing his head in acknowledgment to the elf's question, "are a group of misguided-"

"_-moronic-_" The Templar couldn't help but interject.

"-individuals who believe the Blight is punishment upon the land for man's sins."

"That is hardly different from many of the Chantry's own sermons," Zevran said, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes," Alistair jumped in. "But the difference is that _these_ nutters think that we really, _really_ deserve it, so we should just give up and let the Darkspawn win."

They were crazier than cupcake-faeries dipped in rainbow-colored lyrium_. _He'd never met anyone like that, personally, but he'd heard a couple stories during some of the big meals he'd shared with the Fereldan Grey Wardens (before their numbers had been brutally culled). Stuff was always more humorous than dangerous, though.

"I don't understand," the Assassin said.

"They believe that since the Blight is our punishment, the faithful of Andraste are obligated to accept it as such. They would prefer the Blight to be allowed to destroy all that it touches, spreading across the whole of Thedas." Deschain's mouth curled into a cold smile. "They are something of an antithesis to what the Grey Wardens stand for, if you can imagine."

"So these people might have a reason to want Akana dead, then, if she interrupted the last Blight," Zevran quickly stated, eyes scanning them. Alistair scratched his throat, considering this, but neither he nor Deschain jumped to make the link. The Templar thought he knew why.

"The thing is, the Darksun Cult isn't really powerful. At least, there hasn't been a group of them in Ferelden for centuries." Alistair looked over at Deschain, who nodded, affirming this. "Most people, as you can imagine, don't really fall in line with the idea that we're all sinners living on borrowed time, and that we should give ourselves over to nasty deaths by the Darkspawn. That, and the Cult itself is prone to infighting. There was a great split a while back. The rift happened because some of the cultists weren't even content just to welcome a Darkspawn apocalypse; they began worshiping the damned things. Apparently that was even too crazy for the main group. That was more or less the final nail in the coffin."

Alistair had even heard that a few of them had willingly begun to drink the blood and eat the flesh of Darkspawn, believing that the taint brought them closer to the divine oblivion of destruction, or some such. _And it does, in a way, doesn't it?_ He thought sourly, reminded of his own Joining. But that was different: the Joining made you a Warden, a defender against those unnatural beasts. These people just became half-crazed, twisted shells.

_Like Ruck. _A thin swell of bile coated the back of his tongue when he thought about the dwarf they'd met in the Deep Roads. Akana had been surprisingly gentle with him, had even given him all of _their_ rations, so that he wouldn't have to turn back to his normal "diet" for some time. Alistair'd known better than to complain, even when his stomach growled, and he noticed that they all ate like wolves once they reached Orzhammar again.

"Yes, Alistair's history is right. There have been no concerted efforts by the Cult in some five or six decades, at least. We believe that if there are a handful of members left, they likely are quartered in Orlais. The stodgy political climate is more agreeable to them, I suppose."

"Whether these people have power as a group or not, if they're related to last night's incident, we need to find out. Blackheart's Nectar is no joking matter," Zevran told them both, and Alistair knew that what he was really saying was that Akana's _life_ wasn't a joking matter. He thought the comment might have been particularly aimed in his way, but he let it slide. Maybe Deschain _could_ help them.

"Of course, Zevran." Deschain inclined his head graciously. "Trust me, I have several of my best Wardens investigating the situation back in Orlais. Last I left, however, it was very slow going. Many of the typical hiding-holes where one expects to find such vermin had been meticulously cleared out. We're not sure exactly what that portends, but I've left instructions that I be contacted should anything significant turn up."

Zevran nodded curtly. "Well, I have investigations of my own-"

"Before you go," Alistair began, and Zevran arched an eyebrow. "Anora wants us all for dinner tonight. She might have meant just the Wardens, but..." Should he really be inviting Zevran? Did this make up for last night? Should _he_ be the one making up, anyway? Zevran had been just as out of line as he had-

"I wouldn't want to impose on-"

"No, I think it would be better if you were there. Leliana too. I'll try to make it sound boring so that Sten and Oghren don't show up, but I know Akana would want you two on the lookout."

Deschain's eyebrows rose. They'd both casually avoided telling him that they suspected Anora might be somehow involved in Akana's assassination. So far Alistair thought that he was a rather trustworthy man, and a Commander to boot, but that information was just too volatile.

After thinking this over, Zevran agreed. "All right, I'll attend. Till then, gentlemen." With a small bow again to Deschain, the Antivan walked off. To do what, Alistair had no idea. He doubted anybody but Zevran knew what the Assassin did with his off-hours.

"I'm sure your men wouldn't mind a bit of down time before tonight," Alistair said as he turned to Deschain. The older Warden smiled, and nodded, though there was a glint in his eye that said he hadn't missed that they were keeping him somewhat out of the loop. Still, he didn't press the subject. "I'll show you all to your quarters."

"Yes, that would be quite generous. Thank you."

- - - - -

The dinner was a mix of highs and lows, and very little in-between. Any time there was a lull in conversation, the room seemed to bottom out, and the yawning chasm between Denerium's Queen and Akana's companions would gape wider. Everyone seemed cautious of overstepping some invisible boundary, so instead they'd bump up against it (sometimes by accident, sometimes with a deliberately double-edged word), and then things would get really quiet really fast.

Commander Deschain, it seemed, was keenly aware of this and did his best to counter the tension with some well-told stories. Maker, the man was a saint! He was funny and his wit could cut steel; even Leliana could have taken notes from the way he weaved tales, and Alistair was sure that she was doing just that. Of course, he might have been a bit biased, as they were all stories about Grey Wardens, but truly, Nicholas Deschain was remarkable. It make his heart ache sharply for Duncan, he hadn't felt the sort of unity that came with sitting amongst a table of fellow Wardens in some time. Even Syl, as somber as she was, was smiling. Deschain's stories were the highlights of the dinner, by far.

And then... then there was Akana.

At first he thought the problem was that she was still angry with him. Akana was next to him, and she hadn't shared more than a handful of words with him since they'd sat down together. He hadn't seen her all day, not since they'd parted at Fort Drakon. It was only a few hours, of course, but it'd benn shockingly strange not to know where she was: they'd never been what, more than a hundred feet apart after leaving Ostagar? He'd felt useless in those hours, unsure of what he should be doing with himself. Pathetic, really, but he'd gotten so used to her company and her directions.

Now she barely ate, barely spoke, and didn't even seem to be paying attention to Deschain's wonderful stories. When the room erupted into laughter at the climax of some far-fetched tale, Akana might smile, but Alistair could tell that her heart wasn't in it. That's when he knew that she wasn't still mad at him (or if she was, there was something else to it too). Because if Akana was mad at him, she'd probably tell him. Instead, she was staring off into nowhere, preoccupied. Anytime he tried to ask her something he had to repeat himself, and then he'd only get a nod or a couple words in answer.

This wasn't like her at all, and it worried him. She was hardly known for her introspection, though Alistair bet the Queen was more than happy that Akana was being quieter than usual. It wasn't just him, either: he caught both Zevran and Leliana shooting glances at her every so often. Leliana even looked over at him, question written all over her face: _What's wrong?_ But all he could do was shrug.

"You really should eat something," he finally worked up the spine to tell her, leaning his head down to hers.

Akana blinked, but even when she turned her eyes on him, they were still barely seeing him. "Mm?"

"Eat," he said, further convinced that whatever this mood was, it wasn't driven by her earlier fury with him. And even if it was, Alistair found himself okay with that: she _did _need to eat something, and he wasn't going to let her forget it just because he was afraid she'd snap at him again. He wasn't _that _pitiful. "You've barely touched your food. You didn't even push it around on your plate much."

Akana looked down at her plate, as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh."

"What's wrong, dear?" He asked, lowering his voice to a whisper. His hand sought for hers under the table, and found it clammy. She was distant, _and_ nervous? Alistair had to stop himself from walking out of the dinner right then, Akana in tow. She looked back up at him again, and this time her gaze was more present. Drawn out of wherever she had been, Akana's eyes moved back and forth over his face. Rather than that eerie absence from before, he saw fear creep in.

"Nothing right now," she muttered, looking away. "After this."

And from the finality in her voice, he knew that she meant it. Sitting through the rest of the dinner was torturous, as all he could think about was what she might have to tell him.

_Your imagination is probably worse than whatever it actually is,_ he told himself, having heard Wynne say that on occasion. But that didn't stop his imagination from working overtime, and from Akana's reaction he knew it could only be something bad. Just how upset _had_ she been that he hadn't told her? Upset enough to end things... no, no.

But still, he swore that after today, he'd never withhold any critical information from her again -- whether he planned to tell her later or not.

When everything started wrapping up, Alistair barely registered the goodbyes around him. He was too concerned about Akana. After a few handshakes, and a particularly heartfelt goodbye to Deschain, he followed Akana out into the hall. The elf Warden didn't so much as stop on her way past Queen Anora, and hot on her heels, he didn't either.

"So-" Alistair began, but before he could get anything else out, she shook her head. Akana took his hand with one of hers, and he felt some of the dead weight that had been sitting on his chest lift. It was the first time she'd touched him since their spat earlier, and he didn't think he'd ever missed something so silly as hand-holding more. Allowing himself to be tugged down another series of hallways, until he was sure they were both thoroughly lost, she stopped.

The look in her eyes when she turned to him was frighteningly intense. His love seemed pale, and there was a queasy, feverish sheen over her features. He'd seen stress get to her before, but it didn't usually manifest this way. Maybe now that she couldn't take it out on endless Darkspawn, her body was starting to self-destruct instead.

"Are you okay?" He managed to ask, quickly, before she could launch into whatever she had planned. Akana blinked, as if surprised that he would ask -- probably not realizing just how out of sorts she looked -- and then smiled gently.

"I haven't felt right all day. I think it's lingering poison or something. My stomach's in knots." Her eyes lowered, until she was staring straight into his chest. "And I've had a lot on my mind."

"I know," he answered, and dipped his head forward. He raised one hand to tenderly touch her face as he moved to kiss her, but she stopped him. The woman shifted her weight, looking away.

Before he could ask, she said, very quietly: "It's about Morrigan."

Instinctively, Alistair felt his upper lip twitch into a sneer. He was grateful that she was looking away, so that she didn't see it; he was also understood now why she'd stopped him from kissing her. Thinking of _that_ woman didn't inspire romantic feelings from him in the least, and he was left with nothing but a bad taste in his mouth.

"Great." Alistair grumbled. Hearing Morrigan's name alone was like being prodded with a sharp stick.

"What are we going to do about her?" Akana's voice was unreadable, her gaze distant.

"I don't know," he said hurriedly, hoping to move past the subject. When she didn't so much as bat an eye, he swallowed and forced himself to answer properly. "I... what _can_ we do about her? She's gone, and I'm sure she's already back deep in the Wilds by now."

"Well I mean, if we could do something," Akana said. "We can't just hide from what we did."

"What _I_ did."

Akana's eyes flicked over to him then, and the look she gave him made him want to step back. There was no anger, but it was still as bad as trying to stare down a hawk or some other fierce bird of prey. That was a stare that could pierce through a golem's stony heart. "Let's not start that."

"You're right," he sighed. It would just lead them in circles: she'd say it was her fault for telling him at all, he'd say he was the one that ultimately made the decision, and so on and so forth. And as much as Alistair wanted to avoid her question, he respected Akana too much to purposefully lead the discussion astray.

"Still, though. I don't know what I'd do even if I could do something. Which really _is_ a moot point, isn't it? Trust me, it's not easy for me, thinking-" His throat tightened, his voice cracking, and he swallowed. "-knowing that I helped create a child, let alone with _her_, and that it apparently has the soul of an Archdemon. Like I said before, I'm not saying I regret it, but I'm not trying to sweep it under the rug and forget about it, either. I know what I did. I don't know what the consequences will be, but- Maker, I'm rambling." Alistair pressed a palm to his forehead, closing his eyes.

"But if you could find her, would you?"

"Yes. I don't know what I'd do after that, but yes. For better or worse, I'm -- we're -- part of something bigger, just like she is. But there's just no way to-" Akana dug into a pocket, and his voice faltered as she retrieved something.

"-find-"

She extended her hand, and he automatically offered his.

"-her." He finished as something cool and smooth dropped into his hand. Alistair looked down, opening his fist. There, lying on his palm, was a vial stoppered with cork. The liquid in it was deep, dark red, and it'd dried a bit on the cork, flaking here and there.

Immediately, Alistair felt his gut fall down around his feet. "What is this?" He asked, but his lips and tongue and teeth felt numb beyond belief. Because he knew already, even if his mouth wouldn't admit it.

His first thought wasn't _vial. _Or _bottle. _Or even _what's this?_

His first thought, his only thought, was that this was a phylactery.

Akana didn't answer him, just fixed her eagle-sharp eyes on him, watching._ 'But if you could find her...' _The words rang in his ears. He was suddenly afraid to even touch the glass tube, as if he'd somehow break it, unable to properly function.

"This- Morrigan was an _Apostate._ How-"

"I took it."

Alistair's stomach somersaulted. For a moment he re-tasted the food he'd eaten at the dinner. "When?"

"You remember asking me what I thought about our traveling companions?" He did. He could recall it perfectly, in fact -- it was in the beginning, when he was just starting to realize that he was falling head over heels for his fellow Warden. "It was after that. The next day."

"Morrigan let you draw her blood so you could make a _phylactery_? How did you ever convince her-"

"She doesn't know," Akana smirked, but he could see that there was no mirth in it whatsoever. "She was unconscious. This was before we had Wynne to patch us up right after we'd get knocked out -- I just did it after a particularly nasty fight."

The world was spinning, Alistair was sure of it. He couldn't imagine Akana catching Morrigan's blood in a vial, especially not against the mage's knowledge. The Warden didn't lightly betray the trust of her companions, especially not when it was so hard won. Akana had played this close to her chest; even he hadn't known, and he doubted she had that many guarded secrets.

Or did she?

"But why?" He asked, frowning. "You said she was useful, and you didn't seem worried."

"I also said I didn't _have_ to trust her." Her eyes flashed, and he saw something calculating there, hardened. "You didn't think her motives were what she said they were. You even thought Flemeth played a role in it. You were right on _both_ accounts. I trust you, Alistair, and I trusted your gut instinct. That, and I've always known that Morrigan would act according to her own benefit, to a fault. So I thought I'd have a little... insurance."

"How is it insurance if she doesn't know you have it? Wouldn't the point be to tell her you have it, to _prevent_ her from doing anything against us?"

"Well, we became closer. Friends even. I decided I didn't need to tell her."

"Didn't need to throw the phylactery out, though, either." His tone wasn't accusatory: he was still stunned that she had had such foresight, and such ruthless cunning. He'd never have suspected something like this from her. "You weren't _that_ friendly with each other."

Akana's mouth curled up on one side, another humorless half-smile that make her expression colder than it was before. "Morrigan thinks she's pretty clever. I won't say she thinks I'm an idiot, but she definitely wouldn't see this coming. And after what happened with Flemeth and the Grimoire..." She shrugged. "I thought about tossing the thing, more than once. But every time I would go to do it, something held me back. _Wait, _it said. _Wait till it's over and done with. Wait till it doesn't matter one way or another._"

Her eyes fell onto the phylactery in his hands. "And here we are," she breathed, voice barely above a whisper. When she looked back up at him, it was impossible to ignore the edge in her eyes: crazed. "So."

_So._ He heard the word echo in his head, and it was insane but he thought he felt the phylactery _pulse_ in his hand. A sickening, overwhelming sense of purpose radiated from his core -- both like and unlike fighting Darkspawn. _That's not who I am,_ Alistair snapped at himself, fighting against the feeling, even though his struggle was useless. He thought of the stories, remembered how he'd felt when he heard them as a little boy: so scared for the witches, even if they were Apostates. In the stories they were always women, always led into sin by dark magics and demons. But oh, they must have been _so frightened_, and he was frightened for them, because it was no good to _hunt other people_ like a hound-

Like a hound with the musky scent of a fox saturating his nostrils, a hound that sprung forth on powerful limbs, _made_ for this, made for the hunt, the chase, the cornering-

Akana put her hand on his, and Alistair opened his eyes, realizing that he must have squeezed them shut. He looked down to see his fist clenching dangerously tightly around the vial. He softened his grip at once, and she reached up, running the back of her fingers on his temple. Her skin felt cool against him, and with his other hand her gently took her wrist, leaning into her touch.

What she was asking-

_Only what you were made for, Alistair._

_-Wrong,_ he argued with himself, wanting only to feel Akana comforting him. His lovely, beautiful, perfect Commander. _I was made to fight Darkspawn and save the world and kiss Akana. _

_You were a Templar before you were a Grey Warden,_ the dark and hungry mouth inside of him insisted, ignoring his own half-hearted jibes. As if to underscore the point, he felt another jolt from the phylactery.

"Will you find her?" Akana asked, her voice soft.

"There are supplies I'll need -- stuff that I can only get from the Tower."

"But you'll find her?"

Alistair leaned down, so that his eyes were level with hers. Every emotion in his body was pulling him in different directions: you chose this, you had no choice; you're not a Templar, you _are_ a Templar; this is wrong, _not_ doing this is wrong.

_It's your duty to finish what you start, even if you don't know how._

"If I have to go to the ends of this world and the next, m'lady," Alistair answered.

And it shouldn't have been romantic but then she was in his arms, and her tongue was in his mouth and his in hers, tasting of damnation and salvation all at once. All the while the phylactery beat in his hand like a second heartbeat; Morrigan, once again, coming between them. He pushed himself harder against Akana to compensate, and thirsted for a time when the Witch of the Wilds was cut completely from his life.

The Templar in him agreed.


	33. Professionals and Amateurs

**A/N: **Explanations are in order. However, first and foremost: I am not giving up on this story.

As an underlying factor to all of this, I've got to say that this semester at college is the absolute busiest and toughest I have had in the 3 years I've been here. That alone has squeezed out a lot of the free time I used to have to work on this story. Last semester, when I went totally gangbusters writing this, was a cakewalk in comparison.

That said, there's been a slew of other events. It more or less started with my birthday weekend about a month ago. I turned 21 and the partying spanned two weekends and was... surreal to say the least. After that came two weeks of midterms. Then, when I finally thought I'd catch a break because I was heading home for Spring Break, I managed to slam my hand (specifically, my right pinky) in my mom's car door. Because I'm super tiny, the bone didn't break, even though the door completely closed (and locked). I did have to go to the ER and get stitches plus a splint (that I'm still wearing) however. So typing has not been particularly fun.

Anyways, that's the laundry list of excuses! Because I've dropped the ball so badly, I am going to be even worse and neglect responding to reviews individually for the first time. Please just know that I read each and every one of them and they have been heartwarming and encouraging during the rougher moments of school. Thank you guys so much.

**PS. I am going to PAX East in Boston this weekend.** If you are attending, drop me a message. We can exchange contact info and meet up. I'd love to see some fellow Dragonage fanfic readers. =D

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**Erlina**

_"To find a friend one must close one eye; To keep him, two."  
- Norman Douglas_

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It was inappropriate for Anora to have asked her to do this. Completely inappropriate. On one hand, she could admit that she'd... _admired_ the Antivan elf. But who hadn't? It was a natural response, even if one never had any intention of acting upon it. He was an attractive man, and well aware of his own prowess. It was quite simple to see why so many maidens were caught giggling or daydreaming in his presence. The fact that he had a reputation for being rather obtainable didn't seem to deter anyone: if anything, it added to his allure. Rather than being the unapproachable mysterious type, he was the utterly approachable mysterious type -- the kind of man you could spend a whole night with and never know anything more about.

And that did, on some level, appeal to Erlina. She wasn't a hero, or much less a Queen like Anora, after all. She'd grown up dreaming of being swept up into a grand romance. Truly, the only ticket out of a life of working in the background of things had always seemed to be falling into some sort of torrid and dangerous love affair. But she was an adult now: she'd grown out of that stage of wishing for some reckless prince charming to sweep her off her feet. She wasn't so naive that she thought it would ever happen, let alone that it would come in the form of a womanizing Assassin. Yes, it was an incredibly romantic fairytale to ponder in idle hours, but she just wasn't foolish enough to believe in it.

Yet Anora had asked her to do this. It was possible that Anora _knew_ that Erlina was more wary of Zevran that the other maidens, and that was why she asked in the first place. Or maybe it was simply that she trusted Erlina's judgment. It was hard to say: Anora had only become more and more distant since Cailan's death. After Loghain was killed, she'd closed off completely. Erlina was quite aware of the boundaries that were imposed between them due to station, but even with those, they'd been friends. Now it was impossible to read the Queen. The haidmaiden couldn't help but think that Anora needed the support of a friend more than anything right now, and she had no one.

So it was the least Erlina could do, to assist her with this, though she had her own doubts about it. And it didn't all have to do with the question of her personal integrity. Erlina had to trust that Queen Anora was thinking this all through very carefully; treating Hero of Ferelden like some sort of enemy or rival seemed about as unwise as Grey Warden Akana's decisions to antagonize established powers. The Grey Warden Commander seemed hellbent on upsetting the status quo, and with each fresh incident, Anora knew only to respond with increasing restriction and suspicion.

Suggesting as much would likely lose her a friend and her job, but Erlina had to wonder if it wouldn't just be better for Anora to accept more of Akana's decisions, even support her in them. Truth be told, though she was quite cognizant of the quagmire of politics, Erlina didn't think that most of Akana's actions and demands had been _so_ unreasonable. Erlina wouldn't risk her own security or station over them, but the elves certainly deserved to be treated better, especially after Loghain had been selling them into slavery. Wanting to make more people aware of their plight was hardly a traitorous act.

The situation with the mages and the assassination attempt, however, did prove more delicate. It was much more difficult for her to sympathize with the residents of the Circle Tower than the elves; it wasn't as if the elves had access to untold sources of magical power.

As the thought of elves crossed her mind, Erlina set off across the banquet room to refill Zevran's goblet. She'd assigned herself specifically to cater to him throughout the dinner, and had taken every opportunity to flirt: making small talk, smiling coyly, being overly attentive to a half-empty plate or cup. Her efforts, however, were in vain. The man barely glanced in her direction, even when he was thanking her for the refills. His eyes were almost always on one of two targets: Queen Anora, or Commander Tabris.

His gaze was always scrutinizing, stormy; it only became a touch more mild when he looked upon his leader. Erlina wondered how it was that Akana could inspire such devotion in a man so obviously self-serving. Perhaps he just didn't think of her as a possible conquest, and that allowed him to serve her in an almost soldier-like capacity. Though she'd heard gossip (not even substantiated enough to be considered true rumors) that he and the Warden Commander had had illicit relations, Erlina didn't believe it. It was too easy to see that neither Alistair nor Akana were the type of people to share each other with another.

Despite the Antivan's clearly foul mood -- he'd taken serving women (and men) back to his rooms before, but showed none of that usual charm now -- Erlina still did her best to catch his attention. Futile, but she'd told Anora she'd do it, and she had to trust that Anora had some greater end-goal in mind that simply "spy on Akana Tabris through her friends." The more she thought of it, the more she was unsure this it _wasn't_ just that: but it was too painful to think that Anora was so desperately grasping at straws.

When the dinner ended, Grey Wardens Akana and Alistair seemed to excuse themselves with undue haste. If she hadn't been keeping an eye on Zevran all night, she might not have noticed when he moved to slip out as well, not far behind them. But she _had _been watching him -- and even then, she almost lost sight of him. Without wasting any time, Erlina set off after him. When she entered the hall she was sure she saw him slip into, she had to jog to catch him.

He turned a corner and she followed right after him. It was too late, as she rounded it, to stop herself: something blocked her path and she ran right into it. Or at least, two strong hands suddenly gripped her shoulders, spinning her roughly against the side wall. Surprised, she let out a small yelp. Zevran held her there, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arms, and she was suddenly reminded of the fact that Antivan Crows were raised as Assassins from childhood. Erlina didn't cry out -- if the man wanted her dead, she wouldn't have even seen him coming, let alone have time to call for help.

"If your Queen believes, for a second, that I am the weak link -- that she will be able to get to Akana through _me_ -- she is sorely mistaken." Erlina looked up into that icy stare and was so shocked that she couldn't even speak. Her mouth moved, but no words came out, not even in Anora's defense. Had she been that obvious? "Also, if she thought to seduce me, she should have at least done herself the service of hiring a _professional._ I don't know what's more insulting: that she thinks I would so easily betray a friend, or that I'll fall for such an unskilled rouse."

Erlina found her tongue again, and tried to muster up her best glare of defiance. The indignation of being bullied in the hallway helped, a little.

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" She insisted, tone waspish.

He ignored her. "And when you're delivering _that_ message, you might as well send this one too. Seduction is a craft best left to professionals, but so is _assassination, _as I'm sure she's quickly finding out."

Erlina's mouth went dry. Was he seriously implying that-

Zevran released her, and she slumped a little against the wall. Before she could protest further, he was already walking away, his gait fluid and silent. "I don't know what you're talking about!" She repeated, half-shouting after him, sounding pathetic even to her own ears.

"Then I guess you have nothing to worry about, do you?" He called back to her, without even bothering to turn around. She watched as he turned another corner, and this time she didn't even try to follow him. With a groan, she closed her eyes. It was too much: her own failure, the thought that Anora had played some roll in the assassination attempt... Erlina didn't know what to think about the latter, except that Zevran's "message" could be just as much a bluff as anything else. Whether it was just posturing or an actual warning, she didn't know.

What she did know, however, was that the Queen was _not_ going to be pleased.

Cursing under her breath, Erlina gave out a tiny shriek when a hand was placed on her shoulder. She spun around to find one of the Orlesian Grey Wardens making a quick retreat. "I apologize, Lady, I just saw you standing there and wondered if you were all right. I didn't mean to startle you."

This was just insult to injury, wasn't it? Erlina wished for a hole in open up in the ground and swallow her. No such luck, however. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Are you sure?" He kept a respectable distance from her, and the concern in his gaze was genuine. "Is there anything I could help you with?"

"I'm quite sure, and no, thank you."

"Oh," he said, and looked sheepishly at his boots. "Well, in that case... I think I'm lost." The Warden looked up at her with an embarrassed smile. It was rather disarming, and she felt a bit better about screaming like a girl seeing a mouse. "Do you think you could show me the way out?"

Erlina laughed a little, and saw that his cheeks reddened when he did. She searched her memory for his name -- Anora hadn't had to tell her that it was important to be in good standing with the Orlesian Wardens, particularly if Akana proved to be a problem. The handmaiden had made it a point to memorize their names and faces during the course of the dinner. "David, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Lady," he said eagerly, pleased that she remembered. His accent was easy on the ears, and his manners were refreshing after dealing with the Crow.

"All right, David. I'll make you a deal." He waited, patiently. "I'll show you out, but you have to buy me a round at the nearest tavern." The Warden's eyebrows shot up, but he grinned, and nodded in agreement.

"I believe I can handle that, Lady."

"All right then, first we take a left..."


End file.
